


the line that separates us (starts to blur)

by hakyeonni



Series: little incubus [6]
Category: VIXX
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Succubi & Incubi, F/M, Gen, Historical Accuracy, Joseon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-22 09:18:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 37,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8280688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hakyeonni/pseuds/hakyeonni
Summary: hakyeon never expected that the girl who wound everyone around her little finger would be his undoing. he never expected to change.





	1. one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is Hakyeon’s backstory: how he grew up and how he became an incubus, all set in the middle of Joseon era – from 1617 to 1630. There’s quite a few Korean terms used, but I’ve provided a glossary at the back (with linked pictures) so I hope that helps you!

_15th April, 1630_  
_spring_

 

She comes to him in the night.

He wasn’t expecting it, but she came anyway. Stubborn to the last. It's how she'd become consort, and it's how she'd got Hakyeon, too.

This time, though, is different. This time Hakyeon sees her eyes glow yellow, feels that strange intoxicating sensation in his chest – _I feed on the energy of humans,_ she’d muttered while Hakyeon wondered how someone he knew for so long could suddenly become a stranger – but she doesn't stop like all the other times.

“You can stop now,” he says, pushing her back, or trying to. She’s suddenly become like a rock on top of him, immovable, and he supposes it’s her magic. “Seriously, stop.”

She grins at him, but it’s not at all like the easy smiles they give each other when they pass in the gardens. This is insidious, evil, and Hakyeon can feel her magic wreathing him, choking him. “I don’t think so.”

Hakyeon is suddenly afraid, and to be afraid of _her_ , the petite girl who had taken court by storm and wound the King around her little finger, is absurd. But it’s there and it takes his breath away and his fingers clench in the sheets, knowing he’s about to die and there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it except moan because it still feels ridiculously good. “Please,” he begs, gasping as she drains him more and more, his vision starting to fade. “Don’t – for God’s sake, don’t do this.”

The last thing he sees before he dies is his mistress grinning down at him, her eyes yellow and foreign.

 

 _9th March, 1625_  
_spring_

“Master!”

Hakyeon stumbles upon landing from his leap, his legs giving way underneath him and his fans clattering to the ground, and goes down hard on the floorboards, cursing as he does. God, he knows Jihoon means well, and he knows that after only a few months serving Hakyeon alone he’s still getting used to things, but he’s still not used to Jihoon barging in whenever he pleases, despite Hakyeon telling him he’s not to be disturbed when he’s practicing his dancing. It had been no question for him to take Jihoon with him when he moved out, but they’re both still adjusting.

“Jihoon, how many times have I told you to _knock_ , for God’s sake?” Hakyeon mutters as he clambers ungracefully off the floor, turning to raise an eyebrow at Jihoon. “You are the worst behaved servant in the entire city. I’ll be the object of gossip in no time with how the maids talk.”

Jihoon drops into a bow, slapping his hands on the floor dramatically. “Sorry, master. I forgot.”

“Do _try_ to remember,” chastises Hakyeon, but it’s gentle and he doesn’t mean any harm. “Now get up. What were you bothering me for?”

Slowly, Jihoon gets to his feet, but keeps his eyes on the floor. “A letter arrived, master. It’s from the palace.”

Oh. _Oh_. No _wonder_ Jihoon’d rushed in, then. It almost makes it excusable. A letter from the palace is most certainly not an everyday occurrence, and could mean anything at all. Ignoring the fluttering of nerves in his belly, Hakyeon turns and sits on the floor in front of his desk (which is really just an expensive table), flattening his hands on the surface of the wood and trying to quell their trembling. “Alright. Bring it here.”

“Yes, master,” Jihoon murmurs, sidling closer and thrusting the letter towards him eagerly.

Heavy, weighty parchment. Carefully-inked calligraphy. Hakyeon has seen only a handful of these letters in his life, and all of them were delivered to his father concerning business deals and visits to court. This, though? With Hakyeon’s unusual occupation, it could be an execution order for all he knows. He stares at it for a moment before realising Jihoon’s peering unashamedly over his shoulder, breathing down Hakyeon’s neck, and rolls his eyes and unrolls the letter. They read it together – Jihoon had been illiterate when he’d arrived at the family home, but when Hakyeon moved out he had paid a tutor to teach him how to read, not caring that it set tongues wagging all over town – quickly, Hakyeon scanning the paper for any words like _death_ and _immediate_ and _execution_ and _crimes_ and finding none.

“Master!” Jihoon squeals, his voice slipping back into its pre-pubescent octave, right in Hakyeon’s ear. “They want you to dance! At court! The new consort requested you!”

His first instinctual reaction is joy, so much so that he grins dopily at the letter. He’s been dancing for so damn long (and been avoiding his parents' wrath for just as long, because it’s not acceptable to have a son who doesn’t join the military or make art but instead dances in female clothing) that it’s hard to imagine his life without it. Of course he knows his popularity has been increasing lately. It’s hard to ignore, now that he lives in his own house with Jihoon and two maids and a cook and all the room in the world to dance at the young age of twenty… But being noticed by the palace is an entirely different ball game. A _dangerous_ one. Hakyeon’s identity has been kept secret largely thanks to the fact that he performs for people who couldn’t care less if he’s a man or a woman. The palace, though? They certainly have reason to care.

It’s with measured movements that he turns to Jihoon and hands him back the letter, all the shaking gone. “Hold onto this for now. You’re dismissed.”

Jihoon is practically vibrating with excitement, which is sort of cute, but he stops and looks at Hakyeon strangely. “You don’t want me to fetch the paper?”

“No, I want to think about it,” Hakyeon tells him, reaching out to ruffle Jihoon’s hair, a gesture he knows he hates. “Now _go_.”

Obediently, Jihoon does, bowing with a funny look on his face and sliding shut the door behind him quietly. Considering he is entirely too easy to read and wears his heart on his sleeve Hakyeon can tell he’s puzzled at his response. Hell, even Hakyeon is puzzled at his own response. The joy is still there, but it’s tempered by a little niggling voice that urges him to be careful. He’s heard of this consort who requested him – everyone has. She’s only a year younger than Jihoon, sixteen, and had taken court by storm when she’d been chosen to join the ranks of the royal family. Not that Hakyeon cares much, really, about the intricacies of court, but the maids insist on telling him the daily ins-and-outs. It’s probably good for him to keep on top of these things, and now that he’s away from the family home it’s not like he’s getting it shouted into his ear anymore.

He gets up from the desk and takes his position in the middle of the room, folding himself on the floor gracefully and picking up his fans. He’s practiced this dance so often that it’s easy to go through the movements without music (not that he has a choice, since he doesn’t have enough money to hire a musician to play – the best he can do is Jihoon, crouching and hitting a fan on the floor roughly in time), but as he moves gracefully about the room, undulating between the sunlight and the shade cast by the paper windows, his mind is elsewhere. What has she summoned him for? How does she even _know_ him? His popularity is only just starting to grow, and he’d thought that his influence didn’t extend past certain (mainly seedy) circles. Certainly not as far as the palace. He’d suspect his father had a hand in this if he wasn’t so ashamed of Hakyeon dancing for a living. The more he turns the issue over in his mind as he dances, the more agitated and angry he gets, until he throws his fans down with a huff and storms into the other room to sulk, much to Jihoon’s surprise.

The exact reason he’d moved away from his family, into this tiny little house with its leaky roof and heating that barely works, was to _avoid_ everything to do with court, which surrounded them even though they were barely ever there (he’s been there once or twice for various ceremonies, and he hated it every single time). Hakyeon’s father seemed to be unable to stop bringing his work home with him, and with that work came all the drama that court brought. Now that Hakyeon is being summoned there, against his will – as recalcitrant as he is, he knows that he absolutely cannot refuse an order from a Royal Consort, which is basically an order from the King – he finds himself getting angrier and angrier. It’s so insanely frustrating that he buries his head in his bedding and groans, unable to do much else.

//

“Master,” Jihoon calls, startling Hakyeon awake, “it’s time for me to dress you.”

Hakyeon’s first instinct is to roll back over into bed and fall back asleep. But Jihoon is persistent, and he knows Hakyeon by now, so he looms over him and keeps pulling the blankets away every time Hakyeon reaches for them until he can’t be bothered and struggles to his feet.

“When did you get so tall?” he grumbles as he stumbles past Jihoon, yawning.

He traipses out to the large room that he calls his practice room, but is really intended to be a study. Or it would be, if Hakyeon did any studying. Right now Jihoon’s opened the cupboard doors, displaying all of the hanbok that Hakyeon has accumulated (which really isn’t much) and has pushed the desk to the side. When it’s not the practice room or the dressing room, it’s a dining room, and at night it’s where Jihoon sleeps. Apart from Hakyeon’s bedroom and the all-purpose room there’s a small bathroom, and then in the other wing of the house, where the maids sleep, are a few other small rooms and a kitchen. There’s even a minuscule courtyard that Hakyeon prefers to practice in during summer, even though he doesn’t have much room to move for how small it is. The underfloor heating doesn’t work that well, the beams in the roof are looking perilously close to rotting, the plants in the courtyard refuse to grow properly and the paper on the doors is so tatty it’s nearly see-through… but it’s _home_.

Hakyeon gets undressed quickly and pulls on the white underclothes that Jihoon has already laid out before sitting on the floor in front of his desk/table, which has his makeup scattered all over it. Some nights he does it himself, if he can be bothered, but tonight is not one of those nights so he indicates for Jihoon to come over and do it for him. Obediently, Jihoon folds himself onto the floor in front of Hakyeon and reaches for the powder compact.

“This isn’t the life you were expecting, is it?” Hakyeon murmurs as Jihoon starts powdering his face, his eyes closed.

There’s a pause, and Hakyeon hears Jihoon shift before the powdering resumes, a bit more vigorously than before. “My life is yours, to do with what you see fit,” Jihoon replies evenly.

That makes Hakyeon crack an eye open. “Oh, don’t give me that. You know when I ask you a question I want to hear your honest thoughts.”

“Sorry,” Jihoon mumbles, tilting Hakyeon’s head up with two fingers under his chin. “No, it’s not the life I was expecting, but I have no complaints.”

The little life they’ve carved out for themselves is hardly conventional – at Hakyeon’s age, and at his status, he should be in the military right now, or having passed his exams to join the ranks of the noblemen at court. He should be married, perhaps with a child on the way. Instead he spends his time pretending he’s a _gisaeng_ , a courtesan, a slave, and dancing in seedy teahouses for all the money he can get to survive. His family barely speaks to him anymore (his oldest sister in particular never forgave him for the hanbok he borrowed from her and then ripped), he has no friends to speak of aside from Jihoon (although considering he’s a slave and has no choice but to be by Hakyeon’s side casts some questionable light on his friendship) and he’s perpetually single. The one positive, and the only reason he’s doing all this, is dance. He may be bucking every single tradition that ever existed, but at least he’s doing it for the only thing that’s ever mattered to him.

Which just reminds him of the letter from the palace, no doubt sitting in the stack of important letters that Jihoon keeps (there really aren’t many, and they’re mostly from Hakyeon’s father, who hasn’t _completely_ cut him off despite pretending he’s dead to anyone who asks). It’s fine to pretend like this, when the people he dances for probably know he’s a man and _not_ a gisaeng named Songi but simply don’t care, and another thing entirely to go to court. If they just want him to perform, that’s not really a problem and he can get away with one performance. He’ll just get Jihoon to do his makeup even more over-the-top than usual, and wear a wig. However if they start looking into his past, poking at the history of the gisaeng that doesn’t exist, or if they want him to live at court… If he’s found out, he will be killed, no doubt in some horrific, violent, and public way. And yet he doesn’t have a choice. Stay and be dragged to court against his will, or go and risk everything – not just his dancing, but his _life_.

It makes him sick to think about.

“Master…” Jihoon begins, and Hakyeon hears the snap of the compact being closed, and then Jihoon is tugging at Hakyeon’s chin gently, imploring him to open his mouth. “Are you going to go to the palace?” he asks quietly, painting Hakyeon’s lips.

Hakyeon wishes he could say no, but he can’t. All he can do is risk the deception and hope he comes out the other side unscathed. Thankfully the King is otherwise preoccupied with fighting his wars, which makes him less inclined to pay close attention to the daily goings on of court. Hakyeon _hopes_. “I don’t have a choice, do I?” he mumbles when Jihoon takes the brush away from his lips. “So yes. I will.”

“May I offer some advice?”

Hakyeon wants to raise an eyebrow, but Jihoon grabs his forehead and starts penciling one of them in before he can. “What is it?”

“You should do your sword dance.”

Hakyeon does raise his eyebrows at that, which makes Jihoon hiss as the stick of charcoal goes up into his hairline. His sword dance has become his specialty, now, and is usually what he’s asked to perform (that and his fan dance to a lesser extent). It’s not without its faults, however – the reason it’s so sought-after is because it’s flashy, and he doesn’t know if he wants to go that far to impress court. “Maybe,” he replies, closing his eyes again as Jihoon scrubs furiously at his forehead to remove the charcoal. “I’ll think about it.”

Jihoon doesn’t say anything more as he finishes Hakyeon’s makeup quickly before drawing him up off the floor to dress him. Jihoon has his faults – he can’t really keep time, and he’s always barging in while Hakyeon is practicing, and he likes gossiping with the maids a bit too much – but one thing he is exceptionally good at is dressing Hakyeon. He has a particular eye for fabrics, and often when Hakyeon tallies up the household bills at the end of the month (having someone do it for him is a luxury he lost when he moved out) he finds that Jihoon has gone out and bought more hanbok of his own accord. Today he pulls out a bright blue _chima_ , or skirt, and a sheer, dark red _jeogori_ , the bodice part of the hanbok. Obediently, Hakyeon holds out his arms and lets Jihoon slip the straps of the chima over his arms, holding still as he ties it on. Jihoon’s made a good choice; the place that he’s going tonight is more decrepit than usual, and the jeogori he’s picked is particularly risqué, being sheer.

“No wig tonight, master?” Jihoon asks as he’s tying Hakyeon’s jeogori.

Hakyeon shakes his head. He can only be bothered to wear his wigs if he’s leaving the house during the day, or going somewhere a bit more upmarket, but considering it’s late and he’s going to a crappy little place he just won’t bother. The distinct lack of wig makes it obvious to anyone who looks that he’s a man, but he knows his regulars don’t care. Instead Jihoon takes a pretty _jeonmo_ down off the shelf – a large, conical hat that all the gisaeng wear; right now, flower patterns are in fashion and as such Hakyeon’s is festooned with pretty dark red flowers – and ties it around Hakyeon’s head, before stepping back to admire his work. Hakyeon waits for the nod of approval – to anyone else it would be silly, really, to wait for a slave’s approval, but Jihoon is one of the things stopping him from getting found out, as transparent as his cover already is, and so Hakyeon values his opinion – before turning and heading for the the door.

He’s halfway down the street when Jihoon comes sprinting towards him at full-pelt, waving Hakyeon’s fans in the air wildly. “Ma – mistress! You forgot these!” he pants, bowing low and handing the fans to Hakyeon. “Can I come?”

Hakyeon takes the fans and swats Jihoon with one of them, before sighing. “If you must. Come on, then. I’m late.”

As he turns, he gets a glimpse of the grin on Jihoon’s face as he starts to follow, and has to dip his head to hide a smile.

 

_13th March, 1625_

“I can’t believe you made me get a _litter_ ,” Hakyeon hisses.

Jihoon looks down at him, surprised. Hakyeon realises he must look ridiculous, seated in the litter (the swaying of which is starting to make him sick; he’s been in countless litters over the years, but he never liked them) with his best wig on, his face made up to high heaven, in his most beautiful hanbok. Not to mention it’s daytime, which makes keeping up his womanly illusion doubly hard.

“Ma – mistress, you didn’t have a choice,” Jihoon murmurs back, looking down at the ground as he traipses along next to the litter.

Hakyeon sniffs and shuts the window. It’s rude of him, but he doesn’t have time to give a shit about Jihoon’s feelings right now. He’s too worried about his wig falling off in the middle of the performance and the King seeing and deciding to cut his head off. Or the King seeing straight through his makeup to realise that, hang on, that gisaeng isn’t a lady at all, and deciding to cut his head off. Or the King doing research into his background and finding out that Songi doesn’t really exist, that Lee Songi is actually Cha Hakyeon, son of his Minister of Taxation, and deciding to cut his head off. Or, worst of all, he’s absolutely petrified of doing a good enough job that he’s going to be invited to court to dance for the King permanently.

He can’t win, no matter what he does.

“State your business,” someone drones from outside. Probably a palace guard, if Hakyeon had to guess. He winds the ribbon of his jeonmo tighter around his fingers.

“Gisaeng Lee Songi. She was requested by the consort,” Jihoon says, using the special tone of voice he uses for authority figures – quiet, respectful, soft-spoken. Hakyeon rarely hears it directed at him.

It’s incredibly unthreatening, and yet Hakyeon hears footsteps on the gravel, and then the window of the litter is being slid open. He glares up into the face of the inquisitive palace guard, hoping to God that this man buys his disguise, pretending to be affronted.

“Is there a problem?” he asks, deliberately making his voice higher than it already is, resisting the urge to clutch the fabric of his chima.

The guard gives him a once over before looking at the floor of the litter where Hakyeon’s fans and swords lay. There’s a pause, during which all Hakyeon can hear is the blood rushing in his ears, but then the guard shrugs. “My apologies, mistress,” he mutters before sliding shut the window again.

The litter starts moving, and Hakyeon sits back and lets out a slow breath. This is just one of the tests he’ll have to pass in a short amount of time, but at least he’s doing well so far.

That’s what he tells himself as he tries to stop his hands from shaking, feeling very small and very alone, as they head into the palace.

 

 _24th March, 1617_  
_spring_

_Hakyeon had never seen anything like them._

_It had been reasonably easy to get rid of his nanny and steal one of his father’s horses – the former required some cunning, and the latter bribing the stable boy, who dutifully looked the other way – but now Hakyeon had freedom he had realised he had nowhere he wanted to go. Riding breakneck through the woods would have been fun, except it was well past sunset and the chances of the horse not seeing a hole or a log and breaking its leg were high, so that was out. Instead he’d just picked a direction and rode at a walk, letting his legs dangle around the horse’s belly, turning his face to the sky and watching the stars._

_There was barely anyone out at that time; a few servants hurrying about, who seemed surprised to see the boy in nobleman's clothes riding a horse with bare feet, but that was about it. That suited Hakyeon just fine. Sometimes he felt like he was going to explode if he stayed inside the house, that he’d just blow up one day. His martial arts lessons were the only thing that really helped that feeling, and he relished them every week._

_It wasn’t until he saw a flash of brightly coloured silk rounding a corner that he snapped out of his daydreams and blinked. That looked like a skirt, and a pricey one, at that – what on earth was someone like that doing out at this time? He kicked the horse into a trot, and it tossed its head but obeyed, picking up the pace._

_Hakyeon saw them the moment he rounded the corner – two women walking together, dressed in bright, expensive hanbok, with large, conical hats in their head. They were giggling to each other about something, and Hakyeon raised an eyebrow. Gisaeng. He didn’t know what that word meant – when he’d asked, his mother had snapped at him not to ask again and his father had snorted – but he knew enough to know that the forbidden was fascinating, so he brought the horse back into a walk and followed them until they went into a large, nondescript building, pulling off their hats to expose their elaborate wigs._

_He pulled the horse to a stop, ignoring the way it pranced on the spot impatiently, and considered. If he turned around and went home now there was a good chance he wouldn’t get caught and would manage to avoid the whip. If he followed them, though, he would almost certainly arrive home late enough for his father to realise what he’d done, and he’d already been whipped once that month (he maintained that stealing his sister’s favourite toy and watching as she became more and more irate was not a crime, but his father had disagreed)._

_He only mulled over the decision for a few moments before riding into the courtyard and sliding off the horse, tying it up in front of a water trough. Curiously, his horse was not the only one there; what on earth were more noblemen doing out at this time of night, in this bland, plain house?_

_It only took him a few moments to find a servant to bribe, a maid around his age, twelve or so, who accepted his coins wide-eyed before leading him into the house and shoving him behind a screen. He didn’t even know what to expect when he put his eye to the crack in the screen – and felt like perhaps he’d got himself over his head entirely._

_A number of men, maybe six or seven, were sitting around a table. The table had food scattered on it, and numerous bottles of wine; as Hakyeon watched, one of them rose his glass in a toast, and the others politely turned away to drink. They didn’t interest him, however. All he could see was the woman in front of them._

_Her movements were so fluid Hakyeon swore he was watching water flow. It mustn’t have been easy to move, in her expensive hanbok and huge wig, but she made it look completely effortless as she glided across the floor in front of the men, wielding her fans as if they were an extension of herself. They were beautiful, those fans, huge and with flowers painted on them, tipped with large pink feathers. She danced slowly, gracefully, with the most peaceful expression on her face, like she was in another world, somewhere else. The men didn’t seem too concerned, but Hakyeon was rapt, glued to the crack in the screen, completely unable to tear himself away. The other woman sat in the corner playing the instrument that her friend was dancing to, but Hakyeon didn’t even look at her. He only had eyes for the dancer._

_He sat there like that, his heart racing, until the maid tapped him on the shoulder and told him that it was getting late. He didn’t want to leave – really, he didn’t, he wanted to sit there and watch her forever – but he knew he had no choice and so slipped out of the house, mounting his horse quickly and kicking it into a gallop. He was most certainly going to be whipped for this, but he didn’t care. All he wanted was to know more, to be more, to dance as beautifully as that gisaeng did._

 

 _13th March, 1625_  
_spring_

_Breathe._

Hakyeon’s hands are shaking, and he adjusts his grip on his swords nervously, keeping his eyes closed. All he can hear is the wind, blowing through the ornaments on his wig and making them chime. He can hear the King’s flags, too, flapping in the wind, but he’s choosing to ignore those.

_Breathe._

Maybe he should have just taken the civil service exam. Then he’d be sitting next to his brother, somewhere at the King’s feet, like a good little lapdog – the lapdog his father had tried to make him become. He’d be watching some other gisaeng perform, wishing with all his heart that he could be dancing like that, but knowing that was not his path in life.

 _Breathe_.

Maybe this will be the last time he ever performs.

_Breathe._

The music starts, and Hakyeon rises to his feet automatically, raising his swords out at his sides. He’s practiced this dance so many times, now, that it’s less out of any intentional movement but rather his body following the motions automatically. As he moves, he opens his eyes, being careful not to look at the King, being careful not to look at anyone at all.

As he dances, twirling and lunging and leaping, every bit the image a gisaeng, expert in her craft, all he can think about is water. Ever since he’d first laid eyes on a gisaeng, that night when he was just a boy, he’d always tried to emulate the way she moved: fluid and soft. He never quite comes across like that because of his military training – his movements, no matter how hard he tries, reek of masculinity – but still he tries. And even though he should be fearing for his life, certain that the King will see through his disguise and recognise the movements he’s incorporating into his dance as ones women never learn, all he feels is joy. This is what he was made to do, this is what he was made to _be;_ he feels so alive he swears his soul is bursting out of his pores, covering the crowd, and he knows he’s smiling as he dances. He knows what he looks like, like this, and knows that no one can keep their eyes off him. Right now he has more power than even the King.

The music ends abruptly as Hakyeon folds himself to the floor, breathing heavily and staring at the dirt but grinning like a madman. He knows that that’s the best he has ever performed, and at least if he’s going to die it will be off the back of _that;_ he has surpassed the gisaeng he saw in the teahouse that day, he knows.

There’s a moment of silence before the applause starts, and he rises to his feet and bows low in the direction of the King before rising, being careful to not make eye contact with him. He’s hiding his smile as Jihoon scurries over to him to take the swords away, but Jihoon doesn’t bother to hide his as he tucks the swords under his arm and hands Hakyeon his fans instead. “Master, you looked beautiful,” he whispers, before bowing to Hakyeon, bowing lower to the King, and taking up his position again on the sidelines with the other servants.

Hakyeon unfolds his fans with a snap and draws them across his body, closing his eyes and centering himself. It’s hard to stay still with the adrenaline running through his veins – he wants to grab Jihoon and whirl him around and around and scream as loud as he can – but he manages, even though his hands are shaking. He doesn’t know what the King thinks of him, yet, but he still has another two performances to go.

_Breathe._

“Stop.”

The King’s voice rings out across the courtyard, right as the first note plays, and Hakyeon drops into a low bow, flinging his hands out in front of him. The adrenaline that had been there just a second ago turns to ice and he swears his heart stops beating in his chest, resists the urge to tremble. This is it, this is it, this is where he dies. The King knows, the King _knows_ – this is it. He wants to be proud that he’ll die knowing he stayed true to himself, that he did what he was meant to do regardless of what his father thinks – but instead he’s just terrified. He doesn’t want to die.

“Get to your feet.”

Hakyeon does, keeping his eyes fixed to a spot on the ground, leaving his fans on the ground.

“Look at me.”

All the oxygen disappears and Hakyeon swears he’s going to faint, but he does, dragging his eyes up towards the King. He doesn’t expect to catch the eye of his father, though, sitting in his red robe with the rest of the ministers, and is hit with such a wave of nausea he nearly staggers. Recognition is written all over his father’s face, but it’s the fear in his eyes that makes Hakyeon’s heart drop to his stomach. It’s fear for Hakyeon, as clear and as easy to read as the day, and he looks away, straight into the eyes of the King.

The King is perfectly expressionless as he regards Hakyeon, hands fisted at his sides, chest heaving. He gives no indication to what he’s thinking at all; he could be wondering what’s for dinner, or he could be wondering about the best way to torture Hakyeon before he dies. Hakyeon has no way of knowing, and instead he just has to look into that angular face, those sharp eyes, his lips turned down at the corners.

“I will admit I didn’t know what to think when my consort requested you come and perform at court,” the King starts, tilting his head to the side slightly, raising his right hand in a gesture. Hakyeon dares to look in the direction of the woman who had summoned him, who had got him into this mess, and finds her smirking back at him defiantly. She’s incredibly pretty, especially compared to the Queen, who is as old as the King and who has let her years at court age her. There’s something mischievous in her eyes that Hakyeon doesn’t know if he likes, so he looks away from her quickly. To the King’s other side is the Queen, who doesn’t look happy at all. Hakyeon gets that. “I don’t take as much pleasure in the arts as she does. I obliged because she begged, and because she told me that this gisaeng had a reputation, that she was simply phenomenal.”

It’s going against every social more Hakyeon has had embedded in him since he could talk to keep looking at the King like this, but he doesn’t dare to disobey the order to look away. He can’t move, can’t do anything except stand there and sweat and bear whatever the King says. It’s horrific.

“I didn’t know what to expect, but whatever expectations I had were blown away. I’ve never seen anyone dance like you before,” the King continues.

It takes a moment for Hakyeon to realise what he’s saying – and it’s not _I’m going to cut your head off_ – but when it sinks in he drops to another bow again, unable to help himself. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” he says, his voice shaking, not even bothering to hide it. Holy shit. _Holy shit_. He did it.

“Following this, I’ll organise for you to get transferred here permanently. Entertainment at court is desperately lacking, and I think you’ll fit in well here,” finishes the King, his voice warm.

Hakyeon freezes, closing his eyes and cursing whatever God happens to be listening. This is exactly what he wanted to _avoid_. It might be better than death, but not by much. He’d pretended to be a gisaeng to get as far away from court as he possibly could but it has backfired entirely. He could almost laugh if he wasn’t so angry. Instead, he clambers to his feet and bows to the King and Queen and consort in turn, resisting the urge to clench his fists. “Your words flatter me, Your Majesty,” he says, catching the eyes of the King once more. “I look forward to it immensely.”

The King nods at him and then waves a hand in the direction of the musicians. Hakyeon takes that as his cue and takes up his position, picking up his fans and settling them in his hand again. The last thing he does before he dips his head is catch his father’s eye and raise his chin defiantly; he might not be here by choice, but at least he’s here on his own terms, and not moulded into the son his father wanted.

His father looks away as the music starts, and Hakyeon begins to dance.


	2. two

_7th April, 1627_  
_spring_

“Master!”

Hakyeon grunts, opening one eye a crack. All he can see is Jihoon’s feet in front of his face, but then Jihoon’s face looms into view, peering worriedly at him. Hakyeon winces at the sudden movement, and closes his eye again. Shit. It was a bad idea last night to drink all that wine, because he’s most certainly paying for it now.

“Master, you need to get up. It’s nearly noon.”

Hakyeon rolls over and pulls the blankets over his head, winding the fabric around his fists in a futile attempt to keep them there. “No I don’t. I can do what I want.”

There’s a beat of silence before Jihoon yanks the blankets away from him, ripping them from his grip easily, tutting disapprovingly. “Master, come _on.”_

There’s no point resisting, now, because Jihoon knows all his tricks, including using his pillow as a blanket – that usually gets ripped away too. Instead Hakyeon sits up and pushes his hair out of his face blearily, still not used to wearing it out even after two years of doing exactly that, and snorts at the expression on Jihoon’s face. “Alright! Alright. Settle down. I’m up. And don’t _look_ at me like that.”

He’s still not used to Jihoon wearing his hair up in the way the noblemen do, the style called _sangtu_ , with his hair pulled into a bun on top of his head, a headband called _manggeon_ to accent it. It’s what Hakyeon would be wearing – should be wearing, really, if his life was normal and not a parody of itself, considering he hasn’t stepped outside in men’s hanbok in two years. Jihoon’s now nearly as tall as him, and he’s even starting to grow a scraggly beard that Hakyeon usually makes him shave. Hakyeon went from 20 to 22; not that big a change, in the grand scheme of things, but Jihoon’s 17 to 19 is quite a difference.

Wait.

19.

_Oh._

“Shit!” Hakyeon blurts, clambering to his feet and startling Jihoon, who jumps out of his skin. “I nearly forgot. Stay here. Sit down.”

Jihoon sinks to the ground obediently, his eyes as wide as saucers as Hakyeon stumbles into his dressing room, heading for the cupboard that holds his winter cloaks – somewhere Jihoon would have no reason to go near in the middle of spring, like now. He yanks open the doors and shoves his hands right in the middle of the neatly folded clothes, rumpling them in the process as his fingers close around the lumpy package he’d wrapped up a few months ago, hid, and promptly forgotten about. He pulls it out and kicks the door shut behind him before heading back into his bedroom, crossing the floor in two strides to drop the package in Jihoon’s lap somewhat triumphantly.

“Happy birthday!” he crows, sitting cross legged opposite Jihoon, close enough so that their knees are touching. “Go on, open it.”

Jihoon looks between Hakyeon and the package in his lap incredulously, and the expression on his face is priceless. “It’s not my birthday,” he mumbles, his ears turning red as he blushes.

Hakyeon shrugs. “Yeah, well, it may as well be. Celebrating the day you came to my family is better than celebrating some random day.”

“Master, you don’t have to celebrate anything of mine at all. You know that,” Jihoon reminds him gently, his fingers plucking at the fabric, undoing the knot and unfolding it to expose the contents.

He’s right. Slaves don’t know their birthdays, and even Hakyeon doesn’t know the exact day he was born; that’s a luxury reserved for the royal family. But still, he receives presents on the lunar New Year – lots of them, considering he’s the most popular gisaeng at court – so he figures it’s only fair if Jihoon gets a present sometimes, too. The past few years have just been little trinkets, things he’s picked up along the way; one of the good things about living at court is how easy it is to procure things, especially as someone with as much pull as Hakyeon. Two years ago it had been a small carved trinket box, and the year before that a _sangtugwan_ , a small crown with a hairpin, designed to be worn over the top of the sangtu hairstyle that Jihoon is currently sporting. He can’t wear it anywhere, of course – if he’s seen with it he’ll be branded as a thief, because slaves aren’t permitted to wear them – but Hakyeon knows he keeps it stashed away and takes it out to look at sometimes. Once he’d even walked in on Jihoon wearing it, and he’d nearly fallen over himself to tug it off. This year, though, Hakyeon has decided to go for something more elaborate.

“It’s been ten years, you know,” Hakyeon murmurs as he watches Jihoon’s trembling fingers hover over his gifts.

When Jihoon looks up at Hakyeon, his eyes are full of tears, and his mouth is twisted into a funny smile. “Master – I can’t… I can’t possibly accept this.”

Hakyeon leans back on his hands and gives Jihoon an easy grin. “Don’t be silly! Of course you can. You’re an adult, now. It’s about time you learnt proper calligraphy.”

In Jihoon’s lap is a calligraphy brush and inkstone, along with a few sticks of ink. Underneath those is a small book, a blank journal that Hakyeon had requested to be made. It’s hardly traditional to do calligraphy in a book, but he figures it’s easier for Jihoon to hide and store that way. He can practice on proper paper when he gets better.

“Do you like it?” he asks teasingly.

Without warning, Jihoon pulls Hakyeon in for a hug. Under normal circumstances this would be strictly forbidden, and very punishable. But Hakyeon and Jihoon’s relationship has never really been _normal_ , not from the beginning, and so Hakyeon just hugs the younger man back. Jihoon’s shoulders are shaking as he cries onto Hakyeon’s shoulder, but that’s alright. Jihoon’s done the same for him, many times, so it’s only right that he return the favour.

 

 _21st April, 1617_  
_spring_

_“Hakyeon, say hello to Jihoon. He’s our new slave,” Hakyeon’s father boomed, clapping his son on the shoulder._

_The boy bowed low to the both of them, before standing up straight again. “My name is Jihoon. It’s nice to meet you, master.”_

_Hakyeon eyed the boy warily. Three years younger, his father had said, which put him at nine. He looked it, too, with wide eyes and a missing tooth and a braid that was just a little too messy. It was a scheme that Hakyeon saw straight through – get him a friend and he’d stop sneaking out, or at least his father_ hoped _. But the last thing Hakyeon needed or wanted was a slave, let alone a slave three years younger than him; it would be like having a little brother. The thing was, though, that Hakyeon quite liked being the baby of the family and he had no intentions to befriend this eager little boy who smiled up at him widely._

_Sadly, for the first few weeks, it had the effect Hakyeon’s father intended. He couldn’t go anywhere without Jihoon following him like a little shadow. If he sniffled, the boy would run to fetch a hanky. If he scuffed his shoe, the boy would polish it clean well into the night. His every action was designed to suck up to Hakyeon, which just made Hakyeon detest him more. It was unfair, he supposed, considering Jihoon didn’t really have a choice in the matter – but Hakyeon resented him for representing the utter lack of freedom he now had._

_Things came to a head one night when his father punished him for spilling ink and staining his hanbok. Thankfully it wasn’t the whip this time, he was just relegated to his room without dinner, but it meant he had plenty of time to stew. By the time the rest of the household was sleeping he was livid and entirely unconcerned with any consequences of sliding open the window and dropping down into the courtyard, which is exactly what he did. This time he wouldn't bother to bribe the stableboy. Outright theft would be enough._

_Something stopped him, though, and instead of heading towards the horses he crept towards the servant’s quarters. Jihoon was easy to spot because he was the smallest lump of blankets, slightly away from everyone else (they didn’t run a particularly large household anyway), and it was even easier to shake him awake and drag him outside. He followed obediently and a little sleepily, but once they were outside in the cool night air he suddenly became very alert, and baulked._

_“We’re going,” Hakyeon hissed, tightening his grip on Jihoon’s wrist._

_“I don’t want to,” Jihoon whined, his eyes as wide as saucers._

_He didn’t really have a choice because Hakyeon told him to wait outside the gates and off he scurried, obedient to the end. Hakyeon didn’t know why he was taking Jihoon on his little fool’s errand, really, except that he was pissed off and bitter and wanted someone to share in his punishment. Cruel of him? Perhaps, and his father had never raised him to be cruel. But his father had never had him placed under house arrest, either, so Hakyeon was going to claim extenuating circumstances._

_It only took a minute for the stable boy to go inside to get something and for Hakyeon to steal up to a horse – the same horse he’d stolen last time, in fact – and slip a bridle over its head. He then leapt onto its back and walked the horse out of the courtyard quietly. He spotted Jihoon just where he’d told him to wait and trotted up to him, gazing down at him triumphantly. “Get on,” he ordered, and Jihoon didn’t move._

_“Master… what if… we’ll get in trouble for this. If they think I’ve stolen a horse I’ll…” he replied, his voice very small, fiddling with the end of his braid nervously._

_The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind to frame Jihoon for the theft, and he paused, momentarily shocked. Were there people in the world who would do such a thing? Hakyeon didn’t like the boy, but the punishment for theft for slaves was so abhorrent that he would never dare do anything like that. “I give you my word, Jihoon, that I won’t do that. This whole thing was my idea, and you had no choice but to obey, because you’re such a good slave. Now get on.”_

_They had another small scuffle because Jihoon had never been on a horse in his life and didn’t know one end from the other. Hakyeon had to get off and give him a boost up, which was difficult because the horse had picked up on the excitement and was refusing to stay still. They eventually worked it out, though, and Hakyeon settled on the horse behind Jihoon, who had a hunk of the horse’s mane clenched in each fist._

_“Where are we going, master?” he asked, his teeth chattering – with the cold or with nervousness, Hakyeon couldn’t tell._

_Hakyeon smirked down at the back of the boy’s head. “I don’t know. That’s the fun of it.”_

_Without another word he wheeled the horse around, so it was pointed towards the edge of town, and gave it an almighty kick in the belly. It half-reared up onto its back legs before springing forward, all its pent-up energy exploding beneath them, sending them reeling forward into a gallop. Hakyeon used his legs to grip, as he’d been taught, and aimed the horse towards the road. He vaguely realised that Jihoon was screaming like a banshee as they raced along, the wind whipping his face, making tears stream from his eyes uncontrollably. He was glad there was no one out at this time of night because the horse was picking up speed and charging ahead like it had been bitten. He didn’t want to run anyone over. That said, they blew past a group of gisaeng, who clutched their hats and let out little screams that made Hakyeon laugh._

_They galloped and galloped, all the way out of town and into the woods, the horse having gone nearly completely mad. Hakyeon was laughing wildly, adrenaline running through his veins and making him feel alive. Jihoon, on the other hand, had fallen silent. By the time Hakyeon pulled the horse to a stop at the top of a hill, the three of them blowing and panting, he’d had enough time to realise that taking Jihoon for a wild midnight ride maybe wasn’t the best idea. Perhaps he’d scarred him for life, which hadn’t been his intention; he’d just wanted to have fun._

_His fears were confirmed when Jihoon slid off the horse and collapsed into a heap, his chest rising and falling rapidly._ Oh god, maybe I’ve killed him _, thought Hakyeon, leaping off the horse and crouching by his side, rolling him over, panic making him clumsy. He never meant for that to happen; he’d never wanted it to. What he didn’t expect, though, was Jihoon to be laughing silently, and when their eyes met Jihoon sat up and flung his arms around Hakyeon’s neck abruptly._

_“That was the best thing in the entire world!” he shrieked, right in Hakyeon’s ear. “Can we do it again?”_

_Hakyeon blinked, startled, and hugged Jihoon back awkwardly. He wasn’t used to getting hugged. Nor was he used to Jihoon pulling back and starting to ramble on about the ride: “I’ve never been that fast in my whole life I’ve always wanted to go on a horse but I was never allowed but that was so fun I want to do it again can we do it again I know we’ll get in trouble but wow that was fun,” on and on, a smile splitting his face in two._

_Hakyeon just listened to him, but he couldn’t stop himself smiling a little bit. Maybe, just maybe, Jihoon wasn’t so bad after all._

 

 _7th April, 1627_  
_spring_

By the time Hakyeon dries Jihoon’s tears – which takes a while because every time he looks at the calligraphy equipment he starts sniffling again – it’s mid-afternoon, and he scraps any ideas he had about practicing and instead decides to take a walk in the palace gardens, taking advantage of the beautiful spring day.

Two years have passed, but the routine is exactly the same; Jihoon does Hakyeon’s makeup and dresses him immaculately before giving him a once-over before he leaves the house. Except now, of course, Hakyeon wears a wig every single time he leaves the house, and his makeup has to be flawless every time. Not to mention that the house they live in – while smaller than their old one – has heating that actually works, and windows that open smoothly instead of complaining. The hanbok that Hakyeon wears now are luxurious, the kind he could only dream about before on his salary – now they’re gifted to him, fine silks in every colour under the rainbow, and he’s completely spoilt for choice.

Today Jihoon dresses him in a white jeogori that’s patterned with red flowers and a bright red chima to match, and they head out to the gardens together, Hakyeon’s jeonmo jammed low on his head. The gardens of this palace aren’t all that spectacular, and considering the King is barely there to enjoy them the maintenance on them is not the best, but they are still one of Hakyeon’s favourite places to be when the weather is nice. Life at court might be hard – the first 6 months he could barely stand to be outside for fear of being found out, but as time has gone on he has loosened up some – and it might be dramatic, but at least it’s beautiful, and at least it’s comfortable.

“Do you think that I might be able to write poetry someday?” Jihoon asks animatedly. He’s doing that thing where he almost vibrates on the spot with how excited he is, which Hakyeon finds adorable, especially when he’s almost tripping over his own feet like now. “I know it’s farfetched, but – oh! Your Highness.”

Hakyeon looks up, straight into the face of the consort, and blinks, startled. Jihoon folds at the waist beside him and Hakyeon belatedly mirrors him, cursing himself for being so careless. There’s a long moment of silence where he’s just staring at the end of their chima fluttering against the ground – both silk, his a bright crimson and hers a darker, more stately red – before she laughs. “Rise, Songi. It’s good to see you.”

“And you, Your Highness,” he replies smoothly, moving aside for her to be able to walk past, but she shakes her head at him.

“Walk with me,” she commands, and when the King’s consort commands, you have no choice but to obey, so Hakyeon falls into step silently next to her, feeling Jihoon follow.

This woman (Soyeong, although Hakyeon would never call her that) has remained a complete enigma to him in the time he’s been at court. Whenever they are at events together – which is often, because the King has taken a liking to Hakyeon and insists he dance at every celebration, large or small, and sometimes privately for him just for the fun of it – he feels her eyes on him, following him everywhere, and whenever he looks at her she has that same funny smirk on her face, like she’s amused. She’s eighteen now and rumour has it that she’s carrying the King’s child. If it’s a son she’ll be doted on by him even more, which will further antagonise the Queen, who has (apparently) been neglected ever since Soyeong arrived at court.

Hakyeon makes it a point to steer clear of the royal family as much as he can – he just can’t be bothered to keep up with the drama. This girl, though… There’s something interesting about her, and it’s this that keeps Hakyeon from excusing himself under the pretense of practice to escape from her presence.

“I will admit, when I requested that you come and perform for us at court I had no idea the King would be so taken by you,” she muses out loud, turning her head to stare at Hakyeon openly.

Hakyeon, in turn, keeps his eyes on the ground and smiles. “I did not expect it either, Your Highness.”

“Yes, it was quite a surprise. But it’s been good for you, hm? Now you can have anything you want,” she replies easily, but this time there’s an undercurrent to her words that Hakyeon’s not sure he likes. It could be flirtation – in which case, she’s stupider than she looks, because what a crime that is – or it could be hints at something else.

“I don’t want for anything, really,” he says, serving back what she’s giving him. “Life at court is so perfect that it makes it hard to desire anything out of my grasp.”

Those words cause her to stop abruptly, and Hakyeon stops too, raising his head to look her in the eyes. It’s incredibly rude of him, but she’s obviously aiming for… _something_ , and he wants to know that she’s not going to get it out of him easily. Instead of frowning, though, she smiles, and then turns to her ladies-in-waiting. “Leave us. I wish to talk to Songi alone.”

The order extends to Jihoon, and he looks at Hakyeon anxiously, his mouth turned down in a frown. Hakyeon understands what he’s trying to say, and he doesn’t like it either, but what can he do? He has no choice but to give Jihoon a nod and then turn and follow Soyeong as she strides away from the little group they’ve left behind. Not for the first time he hates the way these royals can take away his autonomy so easily, and nearly laughs to himself. Surely this is what slaves feel. But if Hakyeon’s learnt anything in these past two years, it’s that no man is truly free; even the King has to answer to the council. There’s always someone higher up than you, bossing you around, and he despises it.

They walk along a gorgeous tree-lined path, but Hakyeon’s too angry to take in the beauty of his surroundings, and continues stalking along with his head down. In fact he’s so set on his path that he nearly runs into Soyeong when she stops abruptly in front of a pond, gazing out across the water serenely. He has no choice but to wait next to her, feeling hot and uncomfortable and wanting to go back to the safety of his little house.

“What’s your real name?” she eventually asks, turning to him with a huff, the smirk still firmly settled on her features.

Oh, _shit_.

“My… My real n-name, Your Highness?” he stammers, clenching the fabric of his chima automatically, his heart racing at a million miles an hour. All his hard work, all the hours spent on makeup application and all the times Jihoon had perfected his wig by adding an ornament here or a ribbon there – it’s all wasted, and the very real fear of death that he hasn’t felt for months rushes back all at once.

“Drop the act,” she says dismissively, waving her hand and rolling her eyes. “I know that the gisaeng named Songi is your pseudonym. I looked into her history. She was never registered, and no one had even heard of her until three years ago.”

Hakyeon doesn’t say anything, _can’t_ say anything, just stares back at her as all the blood drains from his face. He feels faint, like maybe he’s having an out of body experience. Maybe this is all just a bad dream and he’ll wake up to Jihoon yanking the blankets away from him. Maybe he’s imagined _everything_ , and he’ll wake up in his bed back at home, twelve years old again. That would probably be for the best. He’s learnt his lesson, now, and he’ll give all gisaeng a wide berth. He’ll be good.

Soyeong takes a step closer, peering into his face like she can see underneath the layers of powder that Jihoon had painstakingly applied not an hour ago, still smirking. It’s infuriating, and a little bit of Hakyeon’s fear ebbs away, to be replaced by anger. “Why aren’t you saying anything? Surprised I found out? Don’t be. I knew what you were the first day I invited you here, _Cha Hakyeon.”_

“Don’t say that name,” Hakyeon spits, his reaction instantaneous. “Don’t you dare. You don’t have the right to.”

She laughs, and any other time Hakyeon would call her laugh beautiful, but right now it just seems cruel. “Oh, please. I’m the consort. I have the right to do whatever I like,” she tells him, and Hakyeon knows she’s right. “But don’t worry, your secret is safe with me. I won’t tell a soul. I was just curious, is all. Does your father know?”

“Your Highness,” Hakyeon spits through gritted teeth, “stop it.”

He’s going about this entirely the wrong way, he knows. What he should do is fall to his knees and beg for her forgiveness, prostrate himself on the ground and devote himself to her as her slave in return for her keeping this secret. But he’s got too much pride for that, and he can’t stand her arrogance, can’t stand the way she’s playing this game.

“I mean it,” she says, shrugging. “I won’t tell. Life at court is much more entertaining with you around. Why would I ruin that?”

Hakyeon doesn’t have an answer to that so he just scowls at her, flinching as she reaches out to touch his cheek, running her thumb down over his lips, smearing his lipstick everywhere. She looks pleased with herself, still, and Hakyeon thinks he’s actually going to push her in the pond if she continues to touch him – damn her, _damn_ her. Instead she just winks at him and turns, picking up her skirts and walking away like nothing out of the ordinary has happened and she hasn’t tipped Hakyeon’s world upside-down on his head.

Hakyeon swears he sees her eyes flash yellow as she goes.

//

“I’ve been found out,” Hakyeon mumbles to himself, to no one, to the huge empty house.

He’d only just managed to stumble back home in a daze before his legs gave way underneath him for him to collapse into a heap on the floor. He hadn’t been able to move a muscle, either, had just sat there staring straight ahead at the wall, the fear choking him, stealing all the air in the room. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe, how could he exist in the face of this? In the face of what is surely their death? Soyeong had said she wouldn’t tell a soul, but Hakyeon doesn’t trust her in the slightest.

“Master,” Jihoon whines, his hands fluttering over Hakyeon’s back, his face, his shoulders, trying to snap him out of his trance. “What happened?”

“She knows,” is all Hakyeon says.

It’s all he has to say because Jihoon goes white as a sheet with understanding and sits down heavily opposite him. She knows, she _knows_ , and the sad truth is she could choose to end Hakyeon’s life with one word – _both_ of their lives, because Jihoon will most certainly be sentenced to death as well, for aiding the deception. Hakyeon hates how his life rests in Soyeong’s hands, because he doesn’t know enough about her to understand what her motives are. She’d known all this time and hadn’t let on – what on earth is she playing at?

It takes Jihoon an age to coax Hakyeon to stand up, and when he finally does he feels very faint, like he’s going to fall over at the slightest breeze. It’s all he can to do sway on his feet as Jihoon undresses him expertly, wiping away the remains of his smudged lipstick with a sour expression on his face.

“I don’t like her,” he mutters to himself, but Hakyeon nods, spaced-out.

“Me neither,” he murmurs back, closing his eyes. “Me neither.”

 

 _12th October, 1627_  
_autumn_

For all Hakyeon’s paranoia, nothing happens.

The first week had been awful. He’d cancelled all his appointments, using the excuse of bad cramps, and had laid in bed. Not sleeping, of course, because he couldn’t sleep – anytime he tried he would just have a vision of Soyeong’s taunting smirk, the ghostly feeling of her fingers on his lips. Out of context it could almost seem erotic, but just the thought of it makes Hakyeon’s stomach turn with nausea.

Nothing had happened, though. No letter had arrived. No armed guards had broken into the house to drag them away. The King had sent the doctor around to check if Hakyeon was alright – a kind gesture, and one Jihoon had to fend off delicately – but they’d had no other visitors. Slowly their panic receded, and although Hakyeon became a shut-in for a month, only leaving the house for his appointments so he wouldn’t run into Soyeong again, things began to return to normal. He’d even danced for her a few times, deliberately avoiding catching her eyes and making excuses to leave as soon as his performance was over. The constant threat of death hanging over their head faded, and they felt like they could breathe again.

Which is why the letter Jihoon receives from a lady-in-waiting one day comes as such a shock. They read it together, Hakyeon panting and sweaty from practice, Jihoon’s face scrunched up with worry.

“Well,” Hakyeon mutters, scanning the letter again before rolling it back up and flinging it clear across the room. “That’s that, then.”

Moving on autopilot, Jihoon gets up to retrieve the letter, chewing his lip nervously. “There’s no way for you to refuse her, is there?”

Hakyeon shakes his head. Some orders just can’t be refused and this is one of them. He has no doubt that Soyeong is up to something – it’s perfectly valid that she could be lonely and bored after the birth of her son, the prince, but requesting ‘Songi’ for tea twice a week when she could have anyone else in the realm is suspect, to say the least – but he just doesn’t know what.

Jihoon dresses him in stony silence, pouting petulantly. He chooses one of Hakyeon’s most expensive hanbok, and when Hakyeon raises a pointed eyebrow he shrugs. “We should pull out all the stops to intimidate her, master.”

It’s rude of him, but he laughs, and Jihoon glowers at him and ‘accidentally’ jabs him in the ribs as he’s doing up the ribbon on his jeogori. “She’s the royal consort, Jihoon. I hardly think she’s going to be intimidated by a hanbok. She can have anything she desires.”

Grabbing Hakyeon by the arms, Jihoon whirls him around to face the floor-length mirror. They make a ridiculous pair – Hakyeon in a gorgeous silk hanbok, with a yellow jeogori and bright blue chima, a face full of makeup and looking every bit a gisaeng, minus his hair which is loose around his face; Jihoon the perfect image of a manly slave, with his long hair pulled back into a sangtu, a hint of stubble on his chin, a scowl on his face. “She can’t have this,” he declares triumphantly, and Hakyeon has to smile at that.

The last thing that Jihoon says as Hakyeon is heading out the door (alone, as the letter had instructed), is bolstered with the conviction that Hakyeon can tell he feels for the both of them. “She’s smart, master, but you’re smarter. Play her at her own game.”

Hakyeon winks at him and turns away, tightening the ribbon on his jeonmo, feeling slightly sick to the stomach. He may not be able to beat her at her own game, and he’s seen how deadly the games at court can be, but he’s going to try.

 

_15th November, 1627_

“Come in,” Soyeong calls.

One of her ladies-in-waiting opens the door for Hakyeon and he shuffles in, dropping to the floor gracefully and bowing before sitting up again, pasting a smile on his face and –

Soyeong is there, looking resplendent as always – Hakyeon notes she’s wearing a new _binyeo_ today, the hairpin that she uses to hold back her bun – and she smiles warmly at him as he rises from the bow. But sitting to her left, staring at Hakyeon like he’s got a second head, is Hakyeon’s father.

“I wasn’t expecting you to have guests today, Your Highness,” Hakyeon says smoothly, ripping his eyes away from his father’s face and pasting on a smile directed at Soyeong. “Would you like me to come back another time?”

“No, no, sit,” Soyeong says, gesturing at the floor across from them. Obediently, Hakyeon does, shuffling across the floor and sitting again before bowing politely to his father, the ornaments in his wig tinkling loudly in the silence of the room. “I thought it would be nice to have the Minister of Taxation here to enjoy your company. He was quite jealous when I told him of our twice-weekly sessions!”

Lies. Hakyeon knows it’s bullshit because for the past month all he’s done in these sessions is sit across from Soyeong and drink tea in stony silence. She hadn’t ever started conversation, so neither had Hakyeon. She hadn’t even asked him to dance once – he’d stopped bringing his fans after a while. So what, exactly, his father could be jealous of is questionable.

“Indeed. Our conversations are always scintillating,” he shoots back quickly, watching her smile crack. “Minister, how have you been?”

Hakyeon has never seen his father quite so flustered, which would be amusing in any other situation but now. It’s an awful position to be in – Soyeong and Hakyeon know, and Hakyeon’s father knows, but Hakyeon’s father doesn’t know that Soyeong knows so he’s trying desperately to keep up an illusion for her sake. “I’ve – I have been well. The King speaks very highly of you, Songi.”

 _Oh, I bet he does,_ Hakyeon thinks, narrowing his eyes at Soyeong slightly. _He would when you’re whispering into his ear._ “Does he? That’s lovely to hear. I always enjoy performing for him because he lavishes me with such praise. At this rate he’ll invite me to become a consort!”

The expression on both of their faces is mirrored – complete and utter shock that he would even dare to say such a thing. Hakyeon himself is _yangban_ , one of the upper crust, the highest caste in society. Songi, however, may as well be a slave, _is_ a slave of the palace, and insinuating that the King would lower himself that far is nearly equitable to treason. But Hakyeon figures they’re all playing with fire anyway, and he has nothing to lose by making them uncomfortable. Soyeong recovers remarkably quickly, though, and laughs. Hakyeon and his father join in a beat later, although it’s the most forced laughter Hakyeon has ever heard.

“Oh, Songi, you’re so funny. The thing with these slaves is, they never quite know where to draw the line!” she says to Hakyeon’s father, leaning over to him and grinning.

 _Bitch_ , Hakyeon thinks, gritting his teeth at her without even bothering to pretend it’s a smile. Everyone in the fucking room knows Hakyeon isn’t a slave, but he can tell she’s taking some kind of perverse pleasure out of orchestrating this event. Once again Hakyeon feels like he’s just a pawn in someone else’s game, the feeling that he hates the most.

“So, Minister, how have your children been?” she asks smoothly.

Silence.

Hakyeon wishes he could throw his tea in her face. It’s one thing to dance around the subject, but this? She’s skirting very, very close to an invisible line here. Hakyeon’s father goes even paler and looks down at his cup, and Hakyeon’s stomach turns. “They are well. My eldest son passed the civil service exams with highest honours. He’ll be joining His Majesty’s court soon. My two daughters are both married, the eldest with a child on the way.”

Soyeong empties her teacup and, acting on autopilot, Hakyeon picks up the pot to refill it, half-tempted to pour it on her hand instead. “Wonderful. I am sure they’ll fit right in at court. But don’t you have another son? Hakyeong?”

Hakyeon flinches and spills some tea on the table. He’s close enough to Soyeong to see her little smirk directed at him, and presses his lips together as he bows his head in apology and dabs at the liquid carefully. “Hakyeon,” his father corrects, and Hakyeon has to stop himself reacting, turning to his father expectantly like he would have done in another lifetime. “Hakyeon… was always very interested in military affairs. He became a soldier as soon as he was able, and he was killed fighting for the King and for the country.” His father’s voice is sombre, heavy, and Hakyeon has to bite his lip hard and look at the floor lest his eyes fill with tears.

“Oh, I’m sorry for your loss,” Soyeong murmurs, and Hakyeon can taste the insincerity. “I’m sure he would have made a wonderful addition to court.”

Hakyeon raises his eyes to glare at her openly. _Bitch_.

//

Hakyeon and Jihoon’s house is normally just the right size – not too big, but not too small, either. Right now, though, it feels like a prison, and Jihoon looks on helplessly as Hakyeon does lap after lap after lap of the room, pacing like a caged animal. He can’t help himself. Soyeong knows exactly what to do to get under his skin – that was evident a long time ago. This, though? She crossed a line by bringing Hakyeon’s father into it, and he wants to tear his hair out.

“Master,” Jihoon pleads, following Hakyeon around the room, his eyebrows knitted together with worry. “Master, _please.”_

Scratch tearing his hair out, Hakyeon wants to _scream_. He actually feels like he’s going to go insane if he doesn’t leave the house soon, but he couldn’t stand being in hanbok for a second later and had ripped it off the moment he’d walked through the door. The idea of putting all those layers back on makes him feel hot and prickly, and it must be written all over his face because when Jihoon catches his eye he frowns and turns away from Hakyeon, heading into his bedroom. It also happens to be where all their stuff is stored, but that doesn’t cross his mind until Jihoon returns with clothes and presses them into his hands.

“Why are you giving me this?” Hakyeon asks, pausing his pacing to look down at them. They’re not women’s hanbok, but they’re not his own clothes, either (not that he has many – no point, since he can’t wear them anywhere). They’re the same style of clothes that Jihoon has on right now, Hakyeon realises. Slave clothes.

“Put them on,” Jihoon orders, and there’s a note in his voice that implies he won’t accept Hakyeon arguing with him. “And wait here until I come back.”

Slightly bewildered – albeit still angry – Hakyeon does, not quite used to taking orders from his slave. Jihoon disappears out the front door at a full sprint, and Hakyeon has no choice but to obey. He does resume his pacing, though, because he’ll end up leaving of his own accord if he doesn’t. Ordinarily when he gets like this his method of coping is dance but he knows that won’t help him now. Soyeong’s stupid smug face is floating on the back of his eyelids every time he blinks, and he’s so keyed up that he doesn’t know _what_ will fix it.

Jihoon returns after twenty minutes and guides Hakyeon over to the mirror, sitting him down in front of it and gathering his hair back into a bun. Before Hakyeon can even ask _how_ or _why_ , Jihoon has done his hair up in the sangtu style, so they match, and secures a manggeon around his forehead. Hakyeon doesn’t struggle, even though the transformation to what he _should_ be is alarming. If he was truly his father’s son he’d be wearing a sangtugwan as well, and his manggeon would be more expensive than this, but still. It’s a vision of what could have been, and he doesn’t know if he likes it.

“Come on, master,” Jihoon murmurs, helping him up and propelling him towards the door.

Some of Hakyeon’s anger has faded, to be replaced by curiosity, mainly. Where on earth is Jihoon taking him to? And why? At least he’s out of the house, and at least he can appreciate the fresh air while being relatively free to move. It’s even nice to have his hair pulled back from his face, even though his scalp is protesting the tight knot that Jihoon has done. His curiosity is piqued when they exit the palace entirely and head into town, Jihoon setting up a brisk pace.

They walk and walk and walk, and Hakyeon’s about to demand they give up this fool’s errand and return home when Jihoon grabs him by the arm and pulls him into the courtyard of a medium, nondescript house. It’s a completely ordinary middle-class home in every way, except for the horses that are tied up to a post, and Hakyeon raises an eyebrow at Jihoon skeptically. What’s this for? He’s appreciative of the chance to walk and to see town without being dressed as Songi, but –

Oh.

“You didn’t,” he says slowly, staring at the horses, the realisation dawning on him. “How –”

“Friends in high places,” Jihoon interrupts, but he’s got a huge grin on his face. “Come _on.”_

Without another word, Hakyeon walks up to the first horse, stroking its neck gently. How amusing. He hasn’t ridden a horse in years, not since he moved out of home, and now here he is, dressed up as a slave, being given a ride on one as a gift. Still, what’s that phrase? Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth? He has no plans to, and instead clambers up onto its back, gathering the reins up in his hands.

Nothing’s really changed, though, because he has to get off again to help Jihoon onto his horse. It’s more of a pony, really, and it pins its ears back at Hakyeon when he walks up to it. Typical of Jihoon to pick a dud horse. It doesn’t take long before they’re both mounted, and there’s a moment of pure glee where they both just look at each other like they’re boys again, sneaking out of home and risking punishment just for the thrill of a midnight ride. It’s not midnight, and a lot of things have changed since then, but at least _this_ has remained the same.

Hakyeon kicks his horse up into a gallop, turning left out of the gate and heading straight for the road. He leans up over the horse’s neck and laughs out loud as he hears Jihoon’s horse whinny as it desperately tries to keep up. He’s blasting past all manner of people who are scrambling to get out of his way, and he supposes he must look like a horse thief, but he doesn’t care about any of that. There’s something so visceral about this, and when he looks back over his shoulder at Jihoon he can see that he’s feeling the exact same way. They could be twelve and nine again, their braids streaming out behind them, their bare feet barely reaching the horses’ bellies, galloping away from everything they’d ever known in the dead of night. For a moment, Hakyeon can picture it as clear as day and he laughs wildly, the last of his anger evaporating. _This_ is life, this is living, and everything else comes second to that.


	3. three

_6th December, 1627_  
_winter_

Jihoon’s ride had helped soothe his anger for a while, but it had flared straight back up again the moment he’d saw Soyeong’s face, and he only lasts another two weeks of awful, silent tea sessions before he cracks. He slams his cup down on the table with a bang, making Soyeong jump, and scowls fiercely at her. “What is your problem?” he asks, not even bothering with her title, not caring that this may be the last conversation he ever has.

Soyeong regards him, her face expressionless. “What do you mean, Hakyeon?”

“That!” he replies, gesturing at her. “That. What are you doing? Why are you doing this? Can’t you just let me live my life without causing trouble?”

Soyeong’s carefully-painted eyebrows nearly disappear into her hairline, and she looks slightly taken aback. It’s an odd look on her, considering she’s nearly always composed, and for a moment Hakyeon feels completely vindicated. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to cause you this much distress,” she says, and her voice is suddenly so warm and rich that it’s Hakyeon who is taken aback. “I’ll admit I enjoy playing games with you, because you take the bait so easily. But it was never my intention to hurt you.”

Hakyeon bites his lip, not caring he’s messing up his lipstick. It’s such a complete change from how she has behaved in every other encounter Hakyeon has ever had with her that his stomach is telling him this is another ruse. Soyeong might not be outright evil, but she is crafty, and she grew up at court – she knows how to play the game. On the other hand, though, her tone is so genuine that Hakyeon can’t help but want to believe that she’s telling the truth. The warring desires in him are fueled when Soyeong reaches out and takes his hand, staring deep into his eyes, her expression the picture of concern. “Hakyeon,” she murmurs, and Hakyeon shivers at how breathy her voice is. “I apologise.”

His skin where they’re touching is very hot, and he feels a blush rising on his cheeks, although he’s not entirely sure why. “I accept your apology,” he murmurs, although he doesn’t let his guard down entirely. She may be being genuine now, but considering she’s shown how clever she can be Hakyeon doesn’t really know what she’s playing at, and that’s _still_ frustrating him. “May I be excused?” he asks, removing his hand from hers.

“You may,” she replies, and Hakyeon senses disappointment there. “You’re also excused from all further tea sessions. I’m sorry to have tortured you so.”

Hakyeon is completely lost in thought as her ladies-in-waiting wrap him back up in his winter cloak, and he nearly trips over his own two feet trudging back to his little house. It’s a beautiful, clear night, and the snow is falling lightly, blanketing the world in a sea of white. He can’t even focus on it. He can’t picture anything but the way Soyeong had looked so upset, such a contrast to how she was before. He can’t figure out the truth, no matter which way he turns over it in his mind, and resigns himself to the fact that perhaps he’ll never know. At least he doesn’t have to have tea with her anymore.

 

_January 20th, 1628_

New Years is a lonely time.

If Hakyeon was normal, he would spend it as everyone else does: with their families, paying respect to their elders. Everyone would be wearing their finest hanbok, and they would all sit down together to have a family dinner, something that was rare now that everyone was grown up. In fact, Hakyeon’s sure that’s exactly what is happening back at his family home, not far from the palace. He just knows that he has no place there anymore.

It’s made somewhat better with the presence of Jihoon, who doesn’t have a family to go home to, either. From what Hakyeon has been able to gather – because Jihoon will never talk about his family _ever_ , and insists that Hakyeon is his family now – his parents both died and Jihoon gave himself up into slavery to survive. Hakyeon can’t fathom what it would have been like for a nine-year-old to have to make that decision and, not for the first time, gives thanks to whatever gods that are listening that Jihoon ended up with him. So instead of dressing up they’re both lounging around the little house in nothing more than their sleeping clothes – hardly a traditional way to spend the New Years, but then they’re both anything but traditional, so it fits. Hakyeon has even goaded Jihoon into taking his hair out for the holiday, since it’s a guarantee that they’re not going to be bothered by anyone, and keeps reaching out to touch it because it’s such a rarity to see Jihoon with his hair out. Right now Jihoon is practicing his calligraphy, painstakingly writing out Chinese characters on a large section of paper Hakyeon had secured, while Hakyeon sits cross-legged next to him and reads, occasionally leaning over to correct any mistakes. It’s nice, just with the two of them, and it feels good to not have to get into his makeup and wig tomorrow. Instead he can just lounge around like this all day and watch the snow fall; hell, he might borrow some of Jihoon’s clothes and walk around the gardens as himself, something he’s never done before.

“Her Highness the King’s Royal Noble Consort,” a voice calls from outside.

Hakyeon’s book and Jihoon’s brush fall at the exact same moment, and they exchange glances – Jihoon’s terrified, Hakyeon’s intrigued. What on earth is Soyeong doing here, at this time of night, when she should be at the palace, celebrating? “Let her in,” he whispers, poking Jihoon in the leg.

Jihoon looks back at him, wide-eyed, and gestures at himself. “My hair! And I’m not – my clothes!”

Oh. Right. Hakyeon’s not exactly dressed, either – he’s wearing nothing more than a light cotton shirt and pants (they don’t need much more because the floor heating in the house is so effective). Not to mention that Soyeong, or anyone from the palace, has never seen him as a man before. “You don’t have a choice, _go,”_ he hisses, getting up and tugging Jihoon to his feet, propelling him towards the door with a little push.

Jihoon shoots him a murderous look over his shoulder as he goes, his cheeks flaming red, but does as he’s told, opening the door and bowing low so his hair falls over his face. From where Hakyeon is standing he can see the look of surprise on Soyeong’s face at Jihoon’s state of undress, but she murmurs thanks to him and moves further into the house.

Hakyeon drops into a bow before he can meet her eyes, too. He feels so weirdly naked to be around her when he’s not wearing approximately fifty million layers of clothes and makeup and a wig; it just feels improper. She doesn’t let him stay down there, though, and instructs him to rise, so he does.

The moment their gazes lock she takes a step back, her eyes widening. Even in the low light Hakyeon _swears_ he sees her eyes blaze a fierce yellow for a second – but then it’s gone, and her face is the composed mask it always was, her eyes the familiar shade of brown. “Hakyeon. I apologise for visiting so late.”

He shifts, resisting the urge to fidget, and nods, his hair falling in his face. “It’s alright, Your Highness. What did I do to deserve a visit from yourself?”

It’s the standard line one uses on royals – certainly more polite than _what do you want?_ But for some reason her expression softens, and she smiles at him. “I just wanted to apologise again, and to give you your gift.”

Hakyeon hadn’t noticed that she was holding something, but she is, and he takes it with both hands when she offers it to him, bowing low and murmuring thanks. It’s a soft but weighty package wrapped in silk, the cool fabric soft to the touch, and he clutches it to his chest and wonders what on earth she could have given him. “This is very kind, Your Highness. I wasn’t expecting a gift.”

“It’s alright,” she murmurs, her eyes flicking over Hakyeon’s face, his exposed collarbones, his arms. “Enjoy your night.”

She leaves as abruptly as she arrived, but Hakyeon doesn’t miss the glance she throws his way over her shoulder as she stands outside in the snow, right before Jihoon closes the doors. She’s bathed in gold from the light of the house, but her expression is galvanised, almost like she’s made a decision. Hakyeon is sure he’s not imagining it, no, he _knows_ her eyes are glowing a fierce yellow, just like a cat’s. He shivers as Jihoon slams the doors shut.

“What on earth was that about?” Jihoon asks as he ambles over to Hakyeon, holding out a small package in his hands. “She even gave me something. _Me!”_

That snaps Hakyeon out of his funk, and he rips his eyes away from the doors to look at it. Sure enough there’s a little box in Jihoon’s hands, wrapped in the same silk that his present is wrapped in. They exchange a long glance, and Hakyeon can read Jihoon’s thoughts – just _what_ is she playing at? Hakyeon doesn’t know, can’t possibly begin to figure her out, and so without another word they drop to the floor and place their gifts in front of them.

“You first,” Hakyeon orders, and Jihoon obeys, unwrapping the silk carefully.

Nestled in the silk is a beautifully decorated, but simple, wooden box, and when Jihoon opens it his eyes go wide. Inside are sweets, almost certainly from the palace kitchens, and Hakyeon can practically see him salivating. “You don’t think these are poisoned, do you?” Jihoon asks, his fingers twitching as he surveys them.

Hakyeon rolls his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t trust her either, but she’s smarter than that. You told me that yourself. Go on, have some.”

Jihoon doesn’t waste any time and shoves the first sweet in his mouth immediately, chewing and moaning loudly at the taste. Hakyeon and Jihoon’s house is shoved in the back corner with the other slave quarters; theirs might be small but it’s almost certainly the best of the bunch, and Hakyeon had only got it because he put his foot down and pretended to be a princess about living with a bunch of other gisaeng. That means they get food from the kitchens nearest to them, and while it’s not _bad_ food it’s most certainly not what the royals eat, which is what those sweets are. Jihoon must be in heaven.

Hakyeon turns his attention to his own gift. It’s probably clothing – perhaps a nice winter cloak or even a swatch of fabric that Hakyeon can get sent away to be made into something. What he doesn’t expect, however, is a stunning pale green _dangui_. Even Jihoon stops stuffing his face when he catches sight of what’s nestling amongst the dark silk, his eyes going wide.

“Master… it’s beautiful,” he breathes as Hakyeon pulls it out and holds it up in the air.

Dangui is a type of jacket worn over the top of jeogori; it’s mostly worn by the royal family and ladies of the court. It’s simply something not for gisaeng to wear and, as such, Hakyeon has never touched one before, let alone been given one. This one is evidently expensive – the fabric is heavy and luxurious to the touch, and it’s embroidered with gold thread. He’s almost certain that this comes from Soyeong’s personal collection. Carefully putting the dangui to one side, he reaches back into the silk and pulls out a pale pink chima to match, this one equally as pretty and no doubt equally as expensive. When he lays them out together, he can see the effect Soyeong is going for, can picture himself wearing it.

“I guess she really is sorry,” Jihoon mumbles under his breath.

Hakyeon stares at the clothing and bites his lip, lost in thought.

 

 _23rd May, 1628_  
_spring_

Hakyeon’s father had once told him that time spent in reconnaissance was seldom wasted, so for the first four months of the year that is exactly what Hakyeon and Jihoon do.

For Hakyeon, Soyeong’s apology had seemed genuine. That in itself wasn’t an issue. The speed at which she’d changed her tune, however, _was_. She went from deliberately antagonising Hakyeon one moment to falling over herself to apologise the next, which was such a change of character it left Hakyeon’s head spinning. So Hakyeon picks up appointments again until he’s scheduled to dance for someone nearly every night, and by the time spring rolls around he’s so busy that he’s barely sleeping – appropriate, somewhat, because Songi means blossom. He sees Soyeong around here and there, and dances for her both when the King requests his presence and when she requests it alone, but they don’t have any close interactions, and don’t even speak. From what Hakyeon has been able to gather, from drawing information subtly out of the Ministers he entertains and from what Jihoon hears from the ladies-in-waiting at the well, Soyeong’s in a world of trouble, mainly from the Queen. She is not at all happy that Soyeong bore a son first before her, and rumour has it she is barren. There’s movements in court to make Soyeong’s son the crown prince, and Soyeong seems to be caught in the middle – she pays no attention to Hakyeon, and doesn’t bother to try and talk to him. It’s easy to skirt around the drama and just observe from the sidelines… even if the pretty dangui, folded neatly in a cupboard, keeps hovering at the back of Hakyeon’s mind.

“Another request,” Jihoon sighs.

It’s the middle of the afternoon on one of Hakyeon’s rare days off. Not that he can take it easy and relax, because he has to practice a new routine he’d thought up, but at least he doesn’t have to wear his hanbok. Jihoon is relegated to one corner of the room, giving Hakyeon enough space to move, and he’s going through the mail as Hakyeon dances. They get countless letters daily from all sorts of members of court requesting Hakyeon to dance for them – the King takes priority, then the Queen, and then the rest of the members of the royal family. After that it’s the Ministers and their families, and then the court ladies, and then after _that_ , if Hakyeon even gets that far (he never has) is anyone else.

Hakyeon’s only half paying attention to what Jihoon is doing – is too busy looking at himself in the mirror to work out where to put his legs, how everything should flow – but he certainly notices when Jihoon goes silent and turns to him, concerned. “Who’s it from?”

“Soy – the consort,” Jihoon says with a grimace, throwing the square of fabric down on the table in front of him with a huff. “For tonight. I’ll have to cancel your booking with the Minister of Education.”

It’s the fabric that piques Hakyeon’s interest. It’s not uncommon to get letters written on fabric; it’s more ‘intimate’, and he supposes people must think it raises their chances of getting a booking with him. But Soyeong has always used the official channels, letters on scrolls of paper with the royal family’s stamp. This is something different, and it’s this that makes him stalk over to the table to unfurl the silk to read it. The letter does indeed say what Jihoon says it does, but the handwriting is wobbly, scratchy, and looks exactly the way Jihoon’s did when he first started calligraphy.

“She wrote this herself,” Hakyeon murmurs to himself in surprise, but Jihoon hears and looks up at him, shocked.

“What? Why would she do that?” he asks.

Shrugging, Hakyeon takes a seat in front of his table and lays the fabric out in front of him. “I have… no idea.”

Is this another ploy? What _is_ she doing? Hakyeon wants to feel frustrated at how she’s playing him again, but instead he’s just intrigued. Maybe that should worry him. It certainly worries Jihoon, who’s looking at him like another head has sprouted from his shoulders. The look that he gives him when he asks for his calligraphy pen and a swatch of fabric, though, is even better.

“What kind of fabric, master?” Jihoon asks from the other room, his voice muffled.

Hakyeon leans back against the wall and considers, but the word rolls off his tongue before he’s even really decided. “Green. Pale green.”

Jihoon obliges, and sets up his ink for him before rocking back on his heels and watching worriedly as Hakyeon writes a reply. His calligraphy is smooth and neat, a definite contrast to Soyeong’s – he got top marks for it back when he was being tutored – and when he’s done he folds it up delicately and presses it into Jihoon’s hands with instructions to run it over to the palace and give it to one of Soyeong’s ladies-in-waiting.

He tries to go back to dancing, tries to focus on being fluid and lithe and smooth, just like his calligraphy, but something’s off. He can’t stay focused for more than two minutes. His mind keeps drifting back to the square of fabric on the table behind him, although he forbids himself from looking at it again.

//

“Not that,” Hakyeon waves his hand dismissively at the hanbok that Jihoon’s bringing out. “Bring me the danggui and chima she gave me. Pick a jeogori to match.”

A funny expression crosses Jihoon’s face – his lips tighten into a line, which is how Hakyeon can tell he’s pissed – but he does what he’s told, bringing out the garments one by one and laying them out carefully, waiting for Hakyeon’s nod. “What wig would you like, master?”

“No wig tonight,” Hakyeon replies breezily, crossing the room in two strides to fold himself in front of the mirror, gesturing at his head. “Do you know how to do _jjokjin meori?”_

Jihoon just stares at him through the mirror. Jjokjin meori is a hairstyle reserved for high-ranking minister’s wives or ladies of court; the hair is braided and then folded over to make a bun at the back of the neck, and secured with a hairpin called a binyeo. Hakyeon, as Songi, is only permitted to wear a certain hairstyle called _eonjeun meori_ , a high, dramatic style, which is what all his wigs are in the style of. If he leaves his house dressed like this he’ll no longer be Songi the gisaeng but someone else entirely – someone skirting very close to being a member of the royal family, because the dangui Soyeong gave him is embroidered with gold thread. He doesn’t really have a choice, though, and figures she risked enough giving it to him – it’s only fair if he risks some to wear it for her.

“Yes,” Jihoon replies slowly, after an age, and Hakyeon wonders where the hell he learnt how to do it (although the image of him asking one of the other female slaves to let him practice braiding her hair nearly makes him laugh). “But you need a binyeo.”

Hakyeon shrugs. “In the other room, in that box of hair things. Some idiot minister gave it to me when he was drunk. Said it was his wife’s.”

Jihoon wrinkles his nose at that, but dutifully goes to fetch it, as well as the _daenggi_ , a strip of fabric that nearly every woman wears in her hair no matter what style. When Hakyeon wears his wigs it’s usually tied off to the side, but this time when Jihoon braids his hair he attaches the daenggi to the end of Hakyeon’s braid. “This is going to be the most pathetic jjokjin meori ever,” he grumbles, yanking Hakyeon’s hair and making him wince. “I told you you shouldn’t have cut your hair.”

“It was getting annoying to shove it all up underneath my wig,” he mumbles in return, even if he knows Jihoon’s right. His hair as it is right now, since he got sick of it and attacked it with a knife, is just past his shoulders, brushing the top of his chest. It makes for a pretty small bun. “No one’s going to be looking, anyway. It’s nighttime.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Jihoon mutters under his breath, yelping as Hakyeon pinches him.

It only takes a minute for Jihoon to gather up his little bun and secure it with the binyeo. It’s a gold coloured one with decorative flower blossoms on the end, which is appropriate, even if Hakyeon’s sick of flower motifs by now. When he looks in the mirror he sees a noblewoman staring back at him (especially as Jihoon has already done his makeup), and he doesn’t know if he likes it at all. This isn’t Songi, the face he’s become used to looking back at him in the mirror. This is someone new entirely.

Jihoon dresses him, muttering the entire time about how this is a fool’s errand and how Hakyeon is going to be found out and killed for committing treason, and he only shuts up when Hakyeon points out they’re both committing treason every single day and that it’s nothing new. When he spins Hakyeon around to look in the mirror, though, his expression is soft. “I never thought I’d say this, master, but you look beautiful.”

“I don’t usually?” Hakyeon replies, pretending to be offended.

Jihoon rolls his eyes. “Normally you’re _gaudy_. Songi is over-the-top. This is different.”

This _is_ different, and he has to wonder why Soyeong wants to see him like this. He looks even _more_ feminine, which seems ridiculous, because he’s not even wearing a wig. But it’s the truth, and when he tucks his hands under the flap of the dangui he realises he could fit right in at court as a noblewoman. It’s completely unnerving. Perhaps that’s why she gave it to him.

He heads out in a daze, taking Jihoon to carry his fans and swords as well as for cover; no noblewoman or member of the royal family would be out after dark without a servant accompanying her. They don’t speak on the way to the palace, just walk quickly and quietly while keeping their heads down, but Hakyeon can feel the nervousness radiating off Jihoon in waves. Right before Hakyeon ascends the steps to Soyeong’s house, Jihoon catches his wrist and digs his nails in.

“Ow! What’re you –” Hakyeon hisses, yanking his wrist free.

“Be _careful_. She’s not all sweetness and light,” Jihoon reminds him, his eyebrows drawn together.

That’s all that Hakyeon can think about as he slips inside. The Queen has been saying some poisonous things about Soyeong to anyone who is listening, that’s true, but from what Jihoon has been told Soyeong has been spewing poison right back… into the King’s ear, trying to turn him against his wife. Even if her apology is genuine – and that’s what Hakyeon is here for, really, to let her know that he accepts it well and truly – she’s still not a reformed woman, and Hakyeon knows that she has darkness in her.

The only thing that changes in Soyeong’s expression when she catches sight of Hakyeon, wearing her clothes, is a flash of yellow in her eyes. Hakyeon still doesn’t know what that means, doesn’t know if he _wants_ to know, but he’s not afraid of her. “Good evening, Your Highness,” he says politely, bowing low before getting back up and unfolding his fans with a snap.

“Hello, Songi,” she replies, and signals for Hakyeon to start dancing.

 

_30th May, 1628_

The invitation comes a week after that, as Hakyeon somehow knew it would. On fabric, just like last time, white fabric with a motif of pink blossoms in the corner, the same scratchy handwriting as last time. The difference this time is the wording – it’s most definitely a gentle invitation, welcome to be refused, rather than an order like last time.

So once again Hakyeon finds himself sitting across from Soyeong, drinking tea in stony silence. He’s once again dressed in his own hanbok, wearing his proper wig, and he’d never thought he’d say he feels comfortable like this, but he does. At least her eyes don’t flash yellow when he looks like this.

“How is your son, Your Highness?” he asks, finishing his cup and pouring himself some more tea.

Soyeong’s eyes light up, and she smiles happily. “Oh, he’s fantastic. He’ll be a year in a few months, and he’s already crawling, which is adorable. The last time he was here he crawled over to a drawer and managed to pull it open… Before I could stop him he had pulled out some chima and was rolling around in it. He’s so happy, all the time, just a lovely happy child. The nurses say they have no trouble with him. And the King adores him, of course, dotes on him just like –”

She stops herself, but Hakyeon’s frozen, his cup halfway to his lips. _Well_. He hadn’t expected _that_. Soyeong apparently has the same habit as Jihoon: blathering on excitedly about things she cares about, and just like Jihoon her excitement is radiating through her pores and making her almost bounce on the spot. Hakyeon calls it adorable when Jihoon does it, but seeing it on Soyeong is… something else.

“Are you alright, Songi? You look flushed,” Soyeong says, leaning forward and peering into Hakyeon’s face. “You’re not feeling ill, are you?”

“No, Your Highness,” Hakyeon reassures her, taking a sip of his tea and willing the flush that’s crept up his neck to disappear.

That’s yet another thing that’s changed. Soyeong has stopped calling him Hakyeon, and has in fact ceased all references to him being a man entirely. He can’t tell if she’s doing it out of respect, or out of fear that Hakyeon will go ballistic if she does, but either way he appreciates it. Walls are thin in the palace, after all. He still can’t quite work out what Soyeong is playing at, doesn’t know what her long-term goal is, but for now he’s content to be her pawn to see what she does.

 

 _27th July, 1628_  
_summer_

“Your Highness,” he begins one day during their tea sessions, which are slowly becoming something to look forward to rather than something to dread. “The invitations you sent me, on the fabric. Did you write those yourself?”

Soyeong chokes on her tea, and slams her cup down on the table while coughing madly. For a second Hakyeon panics – _shit, I’ve killed her_ – before her coughing turns to laughter. “How could you tell? They were that bad, were they?”

“No, Your Highness,” Hakyeon replies, offering her a square of fabric to dry her mouth with, smiling back at her as she grins at him. “I didn’t mean that at all. I was just curious.”

“I did. I was never really very good at calligraphy. My father didn’t let me learn it properly, even though I always wanted to,” she confesses, shrugging. “I did get the correct characters for your name, did I not?”

Hakyeon raises an eyebrow. “Yes, blossom. How did you guess?” He holds out his arms and gestures at himself.

It’s summer now, but he’s just accepted that flowers are a part of his brand and it’s going to be hard to escape them. The jeogori he’s wearing is flower patterned, and he has numerous flower ornaments in his hair. Soyeong scans them all, and then when she looks at Hakyeon she starts laughing, which sets him off, too.

That day, when he’s walking back to the house, he thinks about the two squares of fabric, nestled deep in the back of one of his cupboards, and considers.

 

_3rd August, 1628_

“I could teach you, if you wanted, Your Highness,” Hakyeon offers one day. “Calligraphy, I mean. I taught my servant.”

Soyeong tilts her head to the side. “Now, I knew you and your slave had an unconventional relationship. But he can write? And not only that, he can do calligraphy?”

“It was easier that way,” Hakyeon explains.

He doesn’t get an answer to his offer.

 

_10th August, 1628_

When Hakyeon arrives at Soyeong’s house that day he finds her slipping on her shoes outside, the usual army of her ladies-in-waiting surrounding her. “Ah! Songi. We’re going for a walk in the gardens. Do you wish to join us?”

Hakyeon murmurs assent and falls into step next to her, although he regrets it after going ten steps. It’s _hot_ , and the trees along this path have not yet grown to be mature enough to shade them. At least Hakyeon is wearing his jeonmo, which helps somewhat, but he can still feel his jeogori sticking uncomfortably to his back. Still, it’s pleasant enough being in the gardens, and it makes of him think of his tiny little house in town. The courtyard there had been minuscule, but he’d had enough room to dance during the warmer months. It would be nice if he could dance outside at the palace, but in the middle of summer and wearing hanbok he’d probably keel over within ten minutes.

“This is where we first met, Songi,” Soyeong says, and when Hakyeon looks up he realises she’s right. They’re just a short walk away from the pond where she’d been so cruel, and he frowns at the memory. She must notice it, because before he can move she grabs both of his hands, holding them close to his chest and peering up at his face. “I can’t believe I was so cruel to you that day. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s alright, Your Highness. I have long forgiven you for that,” Hakyeon says, smiling at her and trying to ignore the sweat he can feel creeping down his brow. He wouldn’t be surprised if his makeup is melting off in this heat, and is sure he’s blurring the gender lines a bit.

“I was eighteen then. Such a child,” she sighs, letting go of his hands and setting off again in the opposite direction from the pond. “How much things have changed. I’ll be twenty this New Year.” Hakyeon doesn’t quite know what to say to that, but she asks him a question before he can respond. “I never asked, Songi. How old are you?”

Hakyeon smiles, and he knows she catches it. “Isn’t it rude to ask a lady that question, Your Highness?”

“Ah, Songi, you forget your position,” she teases, winking at him. “A lady you are not.”

“Of course, Your Highness. Forgive me. I will be twenty-four this New Year.”

Soyeong skips forward a few steps and whirls around so she’s walking backwards, her chima spinning around her gaily. “Oh? Quite old for a gisaeng.”

Hakyeon snorts, and has to look at the ground lest he actually bursts out laughing. Months ago this would have been a slight, but he knows Soyeong is just teasing him and means no harm at all. In fact it’s quite refreshing to have someone to banter back and forth with, as Hakyeon can’t tease Jihoon too much in case he gets upset and thinks Hakyeon is being genuine. “What can I say? I’m the best at what I do, Your Highness,” he replies, making her laugh loudly in the open air – that beautiful laugh that Hakyeon had once called cruel.

  
_17th August, 1628_

“Master… I just don’t think it’s good for you to get so invested,” Jihoon says. He’s the picture of concern, standing at the open window and looking out over the gardens, wringing his hands.

Hakyeon, who is seated in front of the mirror drawing on his eyebrows, snorts. “Why don’t you believe me when I tell you she’s changed?”

Jihoon, turning away from the window, pouts. “Because I _can’t_ believe you. The things that she said to you – the things that she _did_ to you – master, the things her servants told me… It’s like she’s evil.”

A shiver runs up Hakyeon’s spine at that. Evil is not the word Hakyeon would use to describe Soyeong. He’d probably choose intoxicating, because that’s exactly what she is – every time Hakyeon tries to extricate himself from her grasp he finds himself falling back to her. But evil? He’s not entirely sure if he believes in the supernatural, but he _knows_ that he’s seen Soyeong’s eyes change colour more than once before, knows he’s not making that up. What if she is… what if she can harness darkness?

“Don’t be silly,” he scoffs instead of telling Jihoon all of this, because he knows it will simply panic him. “Do her servants _still_ tell you these things?”

“No,” Jihoon replies, raising his chin defiantly.

Jihoon looks like he’s about to say something more – berate him, probably – but then someone calls at the door and he trots off to answer it. Hakyeon can feel his foul mood radiating off him in waves, and has to repress a smile as he turns back to the mirror. No, Soyeong’s not evil. A girl who let power get to her head? Almost certainly.

“Master, it’s something for you,” Jihoon says, petulantly, and he dumps the square of silk in Hakyeon’s lap before striding off into the other room.

Well, alright then. Jihoon and Hakyeon have fought before. They’re as close as brothers – actually, Hakyeon is closer to him than his own siblings – so it’s bound to happen. But nothing like this. Jihoon has never been outright hostile before, and it worries him. Oh well. Maybe having some time to stew will help. Instead of worrying over Jihoon, he turns his attention the the silk in his lap, and spreads it out on the floor. Soyeong’s rough handwriting, scrawled in a hurry by the looks of it, on a square of red silk. _“I look forward to seeing you soon. Please bring your calligraphy supplies.”_

Hakyeon reads it over and over again, chewing on his lip, lost in thought. He’d thought she’d forgotten about his offer; he’d written it off as something she wasn’t interested in. Huh. Apparently that wasn’t the case.

//

“Now, you know how to write both Chinese characters and Korean ones, is that right, Your Highness?” Hakyeon asks, keeping his eyes fastidiously aimed towards the paper he’s spread out on the table.

He is alarmingly close to Soyeong, because she’d patted the floor next to her and he’d had no choice but to sit there. Their thighs aren’t touching, but they’re certainly very close to it, and the fabric of Hakyeon’s chima is half draped over Soyeong’s lap, who doesn’t seem to notice or care. She’s staring at the calligraphy pen in her hand like it’s going to bite her, and she’s chewing her lip anxiously, just like Hakyeon does when he gets nervous or idle. “Yes, but I have more practice with Chinese.”

“Alright. Why don’t you write your name, Your Highness?”

She raises an eyebrow, and smirks confidently at him. “Now that’s something I can do. Watch and learn, calligraphy master.”

Hakyeon folds his arms and sits back, making her laugh. Carefully, she dips the end of the brush in the ink, hesitates for a second, and then goes for it. Her strikes are slow, precise, but she’s evidently used to writing her name so she doesn’t have any real trouble. When she’s finished, Hakyeon shivers: 虛消影 is what’s written there. The first character – her last name, Heo – means empty or in vain. The second character, So, means to vanish or to disappear… And the last character, Yeong, means shadow.

Emptiness. Disappearance. Shadow.

“Your parents chose an interesting name, Your Highness,” he says, struggling to be diplomatic. It’s hard to be, when faced with a name like that.

Staring at the characters as if they can give him the answers, Jihoon’s voice swims into his head as much as he wills it not to. _It’s like she’s evil_. Her yellow eyes. The way Hakyeon sometimes thought he was falling into her orbit when he was around her, when he looked her in the eyes… No. It was silly to put so much stock in names. They are just characters; they don’t reflect someone’s personality.

“There’s a story there,” she mumbles. “Maybe I’ll tell it to you one day. Anyway. Your turn!”

She thrusts the pen at Hakyeon, and he has no choice but to take it, ignoring how his skin turns hot where their fingers brush. He dips the pen in the ink and pauses for a moment, before writing his name with quick, artistic strokes: 車學沿. Cha Hakyeon.

Soyeong looks at him when he puts the pen down, her eyes wide. It’s the first acknowledgement of his real name that either of them have made in months. “Cha Hakyeon,” she says slowly, hesitantly, like the syllables are foreign on her tongue; Hakyeon shivers. He can’t help it. “Someone who learns with the deepness of water.”

“That’s me. Always the learner,” Hakyeon jokes weakly, but all of a sudden he feels very hot as he realises how close they are. His gaze falls to Soyeong’s lips, and his mouth goes dry. Have they always been that pink? “Anyway, let’s try writing some simple sentences. I want to see how you do with characters you’re not familiar with,” he says, too loudly, managing to shift slightly away from her.

The rest of the day he watches her eyes carefully to see if they turn yellow, but they never do.


	4. four

_26th September, 1628_   
_autumn_

“I’m bored of this,” Soyeong mutters, and in one smooth moment picks up the calligraphy pen and sends it sailing against the wall, where it splatters, leaving a huge stain.

“Your Highness!” Hakyeon gasps, realising that some poor slave will have to clean that up later, and if they can’t get the stain out the paper will probably have to be replaced. “What are you doing?”

Soyeong glares at him. “I _said_ I was bored. Let’s get out of here.”

Before Hakyeon can even protest, Soyeong rises smoothly and grabs his hand, tugging him in an effort to get him to rise to his feet. He does, only because he feels like she’ll drag him out the door whether he’s standing or not, and realises he’s right when she pulls him smoothly out the door and down the stairs, ignoring her ladies-in-waiting, who scramble to follow her.

“Your Highness,” Hakyeon says, looking back over his shoulder, “we’re not wearing shoes –”

“Shut up and run,” she instructs, still holding onto his hand, so he _does_.

They run until they’re both breathless and laughing, dodging down paths and hiding behind trees to avoid the ladies-in-waiting, who are frantically searching for their mistress. Hakyeon manages to blend in quite well, because he’s wearing an orange jeogori paired with a yellow chima, but Soyeong, with her green chima, stands out. Eventually they find that they’ve reached the back wall of the palace, where no one really goes. It’s incredibly pretty at this time of year, with the autumnal leaves falling, and they stand there and pant, trying to get their breath back.

“Don’t you – ever feel like – you can’t breathe?” Soyeong pants, bent double.

Hakyeon snorts. “What, like now?”

“That’s _not_ – what I meant,” she replies, straightening up. “I mean, the constant company. Doesn’t it – drive you crazy? Oh – your wig – it’s crooked.”

Shrugging, Hakyeon reaches up and pulls it off, figuring there’s no one else around and no one likely to come here, either. It’s autumn, but his wigs are still ridiculously hot, and he sighs with relief when his hair tumbles free and his forehead catches the breeze. He must look absurd – manly hair, but feminine face and dress – but he doesn’t really care. “Not really. My only constant companion is Jihoon, and he’s just like a brother to me,” he says, before remembering and adding a belated, “Your Highness.”

Soyeong pulls a face. “And that. I’m so sick of people calling me Your Highness all the time. It makes me feel so inhuman, like I could be swapped out and replaced by someone else.”

_You could,_ Hakyeon thinks, but instead he jams his wig back on his head – albeit haphazardly – and smiles widely at her. “Okay, Soyeong.”

Her reaction is instant and alarming. This close to her Hakyeon can see when her eyes go yellow, and he knows it’s not a trick, no, it’s _real_. A flush creeps up her neck, too, until she’s blushing. Perhaps he should be afraid, both of her and of the consequences, but here, underneath the trees, he finds he just doesn’t care anymore.

“You’re not allowed to call me that,” she breathes, and her eyes go back to brown. “Hakyeon.”

He raises one shoulder in a shrug and brushes off his chima, being nonchalant about it. “Well, I suppose it’s only fair, then. You can call me Hakyeon if I can call you Soyeong.”

For a moment he thinks she’s going to say no, but then the intense look in her eyes fades and she smiles cheekily at him before turning away, padding over the fallen leaves in her bare feet. She looks so ethereal, so beautiful, that Hakyeon finds himself following without really realising. Maybe this is his fate, after all, but he doesn’t think he minds when Soyeong glances back over her shoulder at him.

No, he doesn’t mind at all.

 

_19th October, 1628_

“Now, raise your arms like this,” Hakyeon instructs, raising his fans over his head and holding them there.

Soyeong had mastered calligraphy alarmingly fast, and after she got bored of that she’d moved on to reading with Hakyeon. Every week he’d devour a new book, and then every week he’d give her a synopsis, and read her his favourite passages. Everything from weighty tomes on the art of war to fluffy, light volumes of romance poetry. Hakyeon found it hard to read those, because he kept blushing and Soyeong kept teasing him about it, so he mainly went for novels. She seemed to like those. After that, though, she’d requested that Hakyeon teach her how to dance. Most of the time Hakyeon goes to her house, dressed as Songi, but sometimes she comes to his house and they practice there. Hakyeon finds it easier that way because he’s not wearing his hanbok and wig, even if he has to deal with Jihoon, who likes to sit in the corner and glower at Soyeong. Today is one such day, and although Jihoon is meant to be going through Hakyeon’s letters he can see that out of the corner of his eye he’s doing no such thing and is sitting with his arms folded, watching them.

Soyeong copies him, but her fans are angled downward, and Hakyeon shakes his head, tapping her wrist with the end of his fan to get her to twist them. He nods when she moves them into the correct position, and she shoots him a sweet smile that makes his heart skip a beat. “The fan dance is all about fluidity. Think water. Silky, smooth, lithe,” he tells her, taking a few steps across the floor and twirling expertly at the end.

“That’s easy for you,” she huffs good-naturedly. “You have water in your _name_. You were made for this.”

_If we’re going off names, you were made to disappear_ , Hakyeon thinks grimly. Soyeong follows him, but her steps are tentative, although there’s nothing technically wrong with them. It makes sense, really, because she has been raised her whole life life to be so rigid in every way that breaking out of that mould would feel unnatural at first. It only comes so easily to Hakyeon because he refused to fit in any box his father had tried to put him in.

“Good,” he says, moving behind her and tucking his fans under his arms. From there, he guides her elbows into the correct position, so her fans are arranged perfectly, and smiles down at her. “You’re getting it.”

Soyeong looks up at him, and with the light of the window streaming in and catching her face, Hakyeon almost goes weak at the knees. Her hair almost looks red in the direct sunlight, and it looks so startling on her that he doesn’t do anything except stare at her for a few moments before he’s interrupted by Jihoon making a disgusted noise behind him.

“Pyo Jihoon,” Hakyeon snarls, rounding on him. “I won’t put up with behaviour like this.”

Hakyeon expects Jihoon to shrink back but instead he stands up abruptly, his face twisted into a scowl. “You won’t have to, _master_ ,” he spits, his tone pointed. “Your Highness,” he adds to Soyeong, but there’s no respect there. Without another word he turns and leaves through the front door, slamming it shut behind him.

Soyeong blinks, startled, and wraps her fans around herself. “What… What on earth is his problem?”

“Good question,” Hakyeon mutters, shaking his head. “I think he’s jealous.”

Soyeong’s eyebrows raise at that, but she doesn’t say anything more, and Hakyeon resumes the lesson quickly.

 

_28th October, 1628_

“What’s wrong, Soyeong?” Hakyeon asks worriedly as she shuts the door of his house behind her.

It’s well past sunset, well past the proper times for them to be meeting, especially as she’s come to him. Jihoon looks up, but when he realises it’s her he scowls and turns back to his book, and Hakyeon chooses to ignore him. “Nothing’s wrong,” she reassures him, coming to a stop in front of him and looking up at him. “I just wanted to say goodbye.”

“Where are you going?” he asks, noting that she’s got a cloak wrapped around her, a winter hat in her hand.

She rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “The King is insisting we go south for the winter, on holiday. And by we I mean the Queen as well. So that should be fun.”

Hakyeon winces. Soyeong’s feud with the Queen hasn’t improved, and if anything it’s gotten _worse_. The King is still favouring Soyeong heavily, no matter what the Queen does to try and win him back, and tensions are extremely high in the palace. Hakyeon doesn’t blame the King for wanting to get away from it all, really, but it could backfire. “Well, good luck. Try not to get your claws out. When will you be back?”

“In time for the New Year,” she replies, smiling up at him.

There’s a beat – just a moment – where Hakyeon’s looking into her eyes and the world starts to melt away around them. Everything – the house, Jihoon, _everything_ – fades away and all he knows is her, all he needs is her. There’s alarm bells going off in the back of his head, as if it’s only just dawning on him now what’s been apparent for a while, but he doesn’t stop himself from swaying in closer to her. _King’s consort_ , a voice screams, but he shrugs it off. He wants – no, he _needs_ her –

Breaking eye contact, she wraps her arms around him in a hug, squeezing him tight for a few moments. When she pulls back, she kisses him on the cheek quickly, and then she’s gone, a whirlwind through the house. Hakyeon is left swaying on the spot, one hand clapped to his cheek where she’d kissed him, the other suspended in midair as if reaching after her. Jihoon’s looking at him, his face ashy with fear, but Hakyeon can’t think about anything but her.

 

_30th October, 1628_

Jihoon’s been ignoring Hakyeon for a whole week now, and it’s completely impossible to deal with. It’s not so much ignoring, really – he’ll still do whatever Hakyeon asks him to do – as not speaking to him and escaping from his presence as soon as he can. Hakyeon feels incredibly guilty – he shouldn’t have snapped at him, and especially in front of Soyeong – but at the same time Jihoon won’t let him close enough to to apologise. So now Hakyeon is lying in bed staring at his ceiling, unable to sleep, thoughts running through his head at a million miles an hour. He hates this, he _hates_ it. He and Jihoon haven’t fought like this before, and it seems particularly stupid to fight over a girl. A girl Hakyeon doesn’t even know what he feels for.

Sure, when he’s with Soyeong he’d do anything for her. He’d kill for her, with no hesitation. When he’s looking into her eyes, he swears he’s falling in love with her. But when she’s away? He enjoys her company, and she’s certainly beautiful, but the absence of feelings is so apparent it’s like a wound, raw and bleeding.

He doesn’t know what any of it means, and it terrifies him.

Hauling himself out of bed, he pads into the other room, Jihoon’s room, and stares down at him. He can’t quite tell if he’s sleeping or not – the rise and fall of his chest is slow, but he could be pretending to sleep until Hakyeon moves away – but figures the chances of him being asleep are pretty low, considering he’d heard him tossing and turning a few minutes ago, so slips into bed next to him.

“Master?” Jihoon mumbles, rolling over on his side to face Hakyeon, one eye open a crack. “What’s wrong?”

So he was sleeping then. Oops. “Sorry, Jihoon,” he replies, and makes to scoot away. “I didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to sleep.”

Jihoon flings an arm out to pull him closer, instead, and shakes his head. They only end up in each other’s beds when something is gravely wrong, and perhaps they’re both too old for it now, but it’s still the simplest form of comfort they know. So Hakyeon obeys and lies back down, staring at the ceiling and being reassured by Jihoon’s arm around him.

 

_15th January, 1617_   
_winter_

_Somehow, Hakyeon and Jihoon had got away with that first wild midnight ride together – God only knew how, because the horse was sweaty when they returned it, and Hakyeon had spent a good hour rubbing it down with straw – and had done it two more times since. The last time Hakyeon had taken his sister’s pony, so Jihoon had a horse of his own. He’d fallen off twice, but each time had gotten straight back on and resumed careening around wildly. It was the most fun Hakyeon had had in his life, and it cemented he and Jihoon’s bond entirely._

_It was very close to the New Year, now, which Hakyeon always looked forward to because he got gifts, even if it was annoying to have to dress up in his finest clothes and pay respects to his ancestors. Still, that didn’t stop Hakyeon from stealing out his window, wearing a winter cap and bringing a spare one for Jihoon, to head towards the servant’s quarters._

_When he got there, though, Jihoon wasn’t sitting up in bed waiting for him, like the last two times. Instead he was just a lump under the blankets, and when Hakyeon crept closer he heard sniffing and – a sob? Without even hesitating, he yanked back the blanket and laid down next to Jihoon, pulling the blanket back over their heads._

_“M – master?” Jihoon said, his voice thin and reedy. “I’m sorry.”_

_“What are you sorry for?” Hakyeon asked, rolling over so he could just make out the curve of Jihoon’s side, rising and falling rapidly. “Why are you crying? Father didn’t punish you for anything, did he?”_

_Jihoon’s shoulders hunched even more. “No, master. He didn’t.”_

_Hakyeon paused. He didn’t quite know what to do here. When he cried everyone fell over themselves to comfort him; he’d never had to do the same to the others. Hesitatingly, he reached out and laid his hand on Jihoon’s shoulder, hoping that touch could help. “What’s wrong?”_

_For a while Hakyeon thought Jihoon wasn’t going to tell him, but then, in between sobs, he did. “I miss my parents,” he hiccupped, and rolled over to bury his head in Hakyeon’s chest. “I miss them so much.”_

_Oh._

_Hakyeon’s father had told him that Jihoon’s parents died, but he hadn’t said how or when, and Hakyeon supposed that the loss must feel all the more raw around this time of year, when the emphasis was on family. It must have been especially hard in a family as cohesive as Hakyeon’s; he and his sister fought a lot, but that was really the extent of the problems. No wonder Jihoon was crying. Hakyeon felt slightly guilty._

_“I’m sorry, Jihoon,” he whispered, resting his cheek on Jihoon’s hair. “I’m so sorry. You’re not alone, though. I’ll always have your back.”_

_Jihoon said nothing and sobbed helplessly, and Hakyeon clung onto him, keeping him there._

 

_30th October, 1628_   
_autumn_

“I don’t know what’s going to happen to us, master,” Jihoon whispers, breaking Hakyeon out of his trip down memory lane. “You and Soyeong are playing a dangerous game.”

Hakyeon closes his eyes wearily. “That’s the thing. I… I don’t know if I _want_ to play that game. When I’m around her, she’s… she’s all I know. But away from her, she’s just, just someone I know. Do you understand?”

“No,” Jihoon replies flatly. “Can’t you sense the evil in her? Can’t you feel it?”

Hakyeon can’t feel it. Even when he’s away from her, like now, all that comes to mind when he thinks of her is that day in the gardens, the autumn leaves swirling around her head, her smile directed at Hakyeon. She’s certainly not the picture of evil, at least not _there_ , and Hakyeon wonders what Jihoon sees when he looks at her. “I cannot,” he says, and looks over at Jihoon. In the darkness his features are barely visible; all he can see are his eyes, staring up at him. “I’m sorry for yelling at you. I shouldn’t have done that. She’s gone now, so let’s not fight any longer. I can’t stand not having you by my side.”

“Alright. I’m sorry too, master. I shouldn’t have been rude,” Jihoon murmurs, shuffling slightly closer. “What will you do when she gets back?”

Hakyeon doesn’t answer him, not because he doesn’t want to but because he _can’t._

 

_30th November, 1628_

Security at the palace is extremely lax, since the King and Queen and consort are gone, so Hakyeon takes advantage of a clear autumn day to get dressed in some of his own clothes and do his hair up in a sangtu to head outside. When he looks in the mirror he feels more like a fraud than when he gets dressed up as Songi. Funny how some things change.

“Get up,” he yells playfully, skipping into Jihoon’s room. For once Jihoon has overslept and Hakyeon woke up early, but Hakyeon let him sleep, figuring he can get dressed by himself for once. “Come on, we’re going out.”

Jihoon gets the shock of his life when he sees Hakyeon peering down at him, and sits up like he’s been stung. “M… Master?” he asks, blinking rapidly. “I didn’t recognise you.”

Disheartening, perhaps, but Hakyeon ignores it and urges Jihoon to get up and get dressed. It only takes half an hour, but he’s impatient, and by the time they’re finally making his way into town he’s practically skipping along. Jihoon keeps giving him strange looks, but Hakyeon is just buoyed by the fact that he’s _free_ – he can walk around as a man and not have to worry about getting found out. No one cares who he is, for once, and it’s deliciously intoxicating.

“What are we going into town for, master?” Jihoon questions, trotting along to keep up. “If I’d known you were going out, I could have organised for a litter.”

Hakyeon grimaces. “You know I hate those. Anyway, I don’t mind walking. I was bored and wanted to do some shopping.”

They end up right in the middle of town, where all the shops are, and Hakyeon is so spoilt for choice he doesn’t know where to go first. It’s nice to be able to walk around and be given the respect he deserves; people aren’t averting their eyes from him, or leering at him, like they do when he goes into town as Songi. No, instead they take one look at his clothes, his expensive _gat_ , the hat he wears, and their eyes widen and they bow their heads to him.

Jihoon takes him by the hand and drags him towards a shop selling hanbok, nattering about how it’s the best in town and how he saw a lovely jeogori that Hakyeon will _love_ , but something catches Hakyeon’s eye and he tells Jihoon to go on without him. Two shops over from the hanbok place is a little jewellery shop, and when Hakyeon walks over he realises it’s a beautiful necklace that caught his eye, sparkling as it turns in the breeze.

The shopkeeper, standing behind the counter, greets him as he steps inside, but he’s too busy staring at the jewellery to pay much attention to him. So this is the sort of place that Jihoon goes to get his hair ornaments; there are plenty of those, _tteoljam_ , as well as the hairpins that the upper-class ladies wear, binyeo. Hakyeon has never had reason to be in one of these places, and he wanders around, his eyes wide. Everything is so _pretty_ , and he can feel his fingers itching at the urge to buy even though he knows he’s got more than enough tteoljam to sink a ship and he certainly doesn’t need more than one binyeo. It’s only until he reaches a counter full of rings that he stops, his eyes drawn to one in particular.

The shopkeeper senses his interest and zips over quick as anything, smiling up at Hakyeon at the possibility of making a sale. “Any you’re interested in, sir?”

“That one,” Hakyeon replies dreamily, pointing at the one he wants.

Obediently, the shopkeeper reaches underneath the counter and pulls the ring out, laying it on the top of the counter. Hakyeon picks it up and looks at it closer; it feels warm in his fingers, and he shivers. Stupid, stupid. He’d spent this long trying to forget about Soyeong and yet here he is, staring at a beautiful ring set with three stones the exact shade of yellow that her eyes flash sometimes, and all the memories are coming rushing back. “Is this jade?” he asks faintly, knowing he’s going to buy it anyway.

“Yes it is, sir, you have a fine eye. Yellow jade imported from China,” the salesman says, and Hakyeon manages to tear his eyes away from the ring to look at him.

“I’ll take it.”

He finds Jihoon buying some hanbok in the shop Hakyeon had left him in, a huge smile inscribed on his features as he points out how pretty the designs he’s chosen are. Hakyeon makes the appropriate noises, but he’s unable to muster up any real enthusiasm when the ring, in a little wooden box, is burning a hole in his pocket. He feels sick with the weight of his guilt, and knows he should turn around and return the ring, but also knows he’s not going to. The act of giving a ring to a single woman means you want to marry them, and while that’s not going to happen for obvious reasons Hakyeon’s not even sure _what_ he feels for Soyeong. Everything he’s buried steadfastly over the last month since she left is coming unearthed again, and he doesn’t like it, not one bit.

So instead of musing on that he smiles widely at Jihoon and praises his choice of hanbok, teasing him that _he_ should be the gisaeng, since he’s the one with such an eye for fashion. Jihoon blushes at that as they head out, and Hakyeon makes his way towards the bookshop, which makes Jihoon brighten. He often reads books that Hakyeon recommends, and absolutely devours them; for someone who has had no traditional schooling of any kind (other than sometimes sitting in on Hakyeon’s lessons back at home) he’s certainly intelligent.

Even as they walk, Jihoon chatting away merrily and Hakyeon trying to respond, he can’t shake the weight of his guilt, wrapped around him like a cloak.

 

_25th January, 1629_   
_winter_

The first two weeks after the King returns are absolute and complete chaos.

Hakyeon isn’t invited to go and see Soyeong, so he has to rely on gossip that he sucks out of the patrons he dances for, and for slave gossip that Jihoon brings back – and what he hears is not good. He knew that Soyeong was frustrated when movements to make her son the Crown Prince were continually rejected when brought before the ministers, but he never knew it would escalate _this_ far. Apparently, on the trip, the Queen made up her mind and decided she would like to adopt Soyeong’s son for her own, therefore making him legitimate, meaning there would be no objections to him being the Crown Prince. Soyeong said no, of course, but in such matters she can be overridden, and the Queen took the matter to the King. From what Hakyeon understands, Soyeong is understandably hysterical, and is fighting the King and Queen tooth and nail to keep her son. Hakyeon doesn’t know what good it will do, but he admires her tenacity regardless. That explains why all three of them have ceased appointments – Hakyeon, of course, had his twice-weekly tea sessions with her, and he usually danced for either the King or Queen once a month or so. But they all spend their time shut up inside, and no matter how many time Hakyeon drags Jihoon out to walk around the gardens, Soyeong doesn’t appear.

The New Year passes quietly, and even though Hakyeon is worried about Soyeong – the memory of her lips on his cheek keeps coming back to him – he tries to keep it to himself, for Jihoon’s sake, and they get drunk and play board games instead. Hakyeon teases him about being a proper adult now, and asks him when he’s going to marry, which makes Jihoon go redder than he’s ever seen him. It’s perfectly pleasant, but Hakyeon can’t help feeling like something’s missing.

Perhaps that’s why he gets sick of lying around one late afternoon, and declares he’s going for a walk. Jihoon raises his eyebrows at him – it’s snowing lightly outside, and it’s bitterly cold – and gets up to dress him, but Hakyeon waves him off. “I won’t bother putting on Songi’s clothes. No one’s around in this weather, anyway, so just let me borrow some of yours.”

So that’s exactly what they do, wrapped up in so many furs they look practically round as they waddle outside, Jihoon whining the entire time. He only shuts up when Hakyeon bends over (with difficulty) and scoops up some snow and flings it at him.

“Master! You –” Jihoon starts, his eyes wide, but Hakyeon throws another one and gets him in the mouth.

That starts a war. They used to have snowball fights in the front yard of Hakyeon’s family home, running around and shrieking wildly until someone came to tell them to shut up because they were spooking the horses and making the neighbours worried, but they haven’t done it for years. It feels good to let loose, and while Hakyeon used to have a size advantage when they were children he doesn’t anymore, and Jihoon gives as good as he gets. They go for what seems like an age, and Hakyeon is right about to nail Jihoon in the forehead when he slips and falls face-first into a pile of snow up to their waists.

“Jihoon! Are you alright?” Hakyeon gasps, reaching in and tugging him out, laughing when Jihoon comes out looking wet and bedraggled.

“C-c-cold,” Jihoon whines, shaking his head and spraying snow over Hakyeon. “I’ll go inside and get changed. Stay here.”

Before Hakyeon can even tell him that he’ll come too he’s gone, running through the snow with his arms wrapped around himself and his head bowed low. Hakyeon feels guilty for approximately a second, before turning around and –

Soyeong’s standing there.

She’s wearing a hanbok and nothing else – no cloak, no winter hat. The cold doesn’t seem to affect her at all. That’s not what makes Hakyeon stop in his tracks and stare at her, though, completely forgetting to bow. She looks broken, pale and sunken, almost _hungry_. It’s a horrible look on her, and he doesn’t remember how to use his words, completely shocked at her appearance. This was not how he expected their first meeting to go.

“She took him,” she murmurs, her voice low and raw and nearly blowing away with the wind.

Hakyeon takes a cautious step closer, casting his eyes about for anyone else – but of course, no one else is insane enough to be out while it’s snowing, and certainly no one is hanging around this part of the palace, anyway. “She… took who?”

Soyeong’s lips wobble. “The Queen... she took my son from me.”

She sounds so shattered that Hakyeon moves on instinct, stepping close to her and pulling her into his arms. He doesn’t even realised he’s moved, really, until she wraps her arms around his waist and holds him close. Even though all his layers, Hakyeon can feel her trembling, and he doesn’t know if it’s because of the cold or because of her son being taken away from her, such a horrific fate that he can’t even begin to imagine it. The person he’s closest to is Jihoon, and he would not hesitate to kill if someone took Jihoon away from him against his will – Soyeong must be feeling like that, but tenfold.

When Hakyeon looks down at her he sees she’s crying, her tears making icy tracks down her face. He’s never seen her this miserable, this crushed, and it breaks his heart. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers, lifting his hand to brush away her tears and cup her cheek.

It only occurs to him what a compromising position they’re in the moment before she kisses him, but the moment she does all of that fades away. Her lips are so warm, and Hakyeon can read the desperation there, but he doesn’t push her away – he instead responds with equal desperation, slipping his hands around her waist to rest on her back, tugging her closer, feeling her warmth. It should be wrong, it should _feel_ wrong – it should be ringing all sorts of alarm bells right now, really – but it doesn’t, and he can’t get enough of it, can’t get enough of _her_.

When she takes his hand and leads him back to his house, slamming the door shut in Jihoon’s face and locking him out, he doesn’t stop her. He doesn’t stop her when she shoves her hand underneath his shirt, and he doesn’t stop her when she pushes him down onto the bed. He can’t stop, now, knows this has been building between them for long enough and that it’s finally _right_.

//

Afterwards he has to help her get dressed again, because she can’t quite work out how to tie her jeogori, and when Hakyeon teasingly asks if she’s ever dressed herself before she rolls her eyes and says _of course I haven’t_. He’s naked, still, hasn’t bothered to put Jihoon’s clothes back on, and he notes her eyes roaming over his body as he ties the ribbon on her jeogori expertly.

“I have something for you,” he murmurs, cupping her cheek again and running his thumb along her cheekbone.

She visibly brightens at that, and looks up at him eagerly. “What is it?”

“I’m not telling you,” he says, shaking his head. “You women, you all want one thing. If I hold this present over your head, you’ll have to keep coming back for more.”

Soyeong snorts and twists her head, biting his thumb gently. “Uh-huh. You were already stuck with me, but sure. I’ll be collecting next time.”

She leans up and kisses Hakyeon again, softly and sweetly, and Hakyeon closes his eyes and breathes in her scent, sweet and pure and so _her_. He honestly feels like he could do this all day, just stand there kissing her, even if there are more layers in the way than he’d like. That’s until a wave of fatigue hits him and he breaks the kiss, staggering a little bit, suddenly feeling weak.

“Are you alright?” Soyeong asks, alarmed, grabbing his arm and keeping him upright. “What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head, but he’s feeling dizzy now, and is grateful for her touch. “Um. I’m fine. I just feel…”

Pursing her lips, she guides him over to the mess of blankets on the floor and helps him down, tucking him in just like she would do a child. Hakyeon’s incredibly fit, thanks to the dancing he does every day of the week, but this is strange – this is a bone-tiredness he hasn’t felt before, like he’s been completely weakened. “You tired me out,” he jokes to her, but she just frowns and kisses his forehead gently.

“I’ll see you soon, okay?” she whispers, arranging the blankets around him and then getting up and leaving, looking over her shoulder as she does, her expression fixed into one of worry.

Hakyeon closes his eyes and sleeps, too tired to do much else, too tired to think about all those times her eyes had flashed yellow, just for a fraction of a second…

 

_25th February, 1629_

It had taken a solid week of Hakyeon begging for forgiveness for Jihoon to let him off for throwing him outside in the snow. After Jihoon had accepted his apology – and the new set of ink sticks, telling Hakyeon he was above bribes but he’d make an exception just this once – he’d confessed that it wasn’t a big deal, he’d just and gone and hung out with the other gisaeng’s slaves, and Hakyeon had nearly gone purple in the face. Jihoon wasn’t stupid, and he’d figured out what the two of them had been doing while he was (presumably) flirting with girls, but he turned a blind eye to it. Hakyeon thought it was perhaps better that way. At least he wasn’t getting yelled at that he was stupid and reckless, things he was acutely aware of.

It’s another three weeks after that before Hakyeon recieves a handwritten invitation on a square of lurid pink silk. This time Soyeong’s calligraphy is smooth and solid, and Hakyeon practically beams with pride, showing it off to Jihoon, who just rolls his eyes. He continues to roll his eyes the entire time he’s dressing Hakyeon up as Songi, and rolls his eyes right up until Hakyeon leaves out the door, practically running in his hurry to get to Soyeong’s place.

Maybe he should be thinking of the danger, but it’s not something that’s even on his radar. He supposes that because he’s spent four years, now, skirting danger at every turn, he’s become completely numb to it. Only the King properly frightens him these days, and the King is much too busy with trying to keep the country from falling apart and his wives from killing each other to worry about whatever Songi is doing. So that’s why he’s slipping and sliding on the snow, and it’s why he’s breathless when he finally gets to her place – not from fear but from anticipation.

Soyeong’s in a foul mood, though, and they sit and drink tea in silence while she stews. Hakyeon knows better to say anything, so he just sits and waits, refilling her cup whenever she empties it and fingering the fabric of his chima.

“Listen to this,” she mutters, apropos of nothing, reading from a piece of paper that’s set on the table. “All the ministers that are in support of the Queen adopting my son. Park Seonggi. Lee Junghwan. Choi Jongyeol. Woo Jiho. Choi Jongsu. Lee Jaehwan – hah. Hypocrite.”

Hakyeon doesn’t know what to say. Most of the names are vaguely familiar to him, having heard them at the dinner table whenever his father was discussing work. But he hasn’t kept up with the proper ins and outs of the King’s court for years, and feels entirely out of the loop. He doesn’t have to say anything, though, because Soyeong curls her lip and scrunches up the paper, sending it sailing across the room. Inwardly he thanks God she hadn’t read out his father’s name.

“I can’t stand it. I can’t _stand_ it,” she blurts, drawing her knees up to her chest and hugging them. “The order will go through soon, and he’ll officially be hers. I can’t even – I can’t even see him anymore. The nurses tell me he cries for me all the time. He’s not even two. How could she do this?”

Hakyeon can’t stand to see her so visibly upset, and even though she hasn’t invited him he scoots around the table and puts his arm around her delicately, holding his head free of hers so his wig doesn’t get tangled in her hair. They sit like that for a few moments, Songi burrowing closer to him and sniffing, until he remembers. “I have that thing for you.”

She sits up so fast she nearly clocks him in the eye with her binyeo, and he winces and rubs his cheek. “Really? What is it? Show me.”

Hakyeon pretends to be in thought, before grinning widely at her. “No… No, I don’t think I will give it to you just yet.”

Soyeong’s mouth falls open, and she hits him on the arm lightly. “You can’t do that! You absolute tease!” Hakyeon opens his mouth to reply, but she pushes him down on the floor and kisses him, and that ceases any discussion from there on.

//

Hakyeon swears Jihoon must have some kind of uncanny fifth sense as to when Hakyeon’s in trouble, because when he stumbles back to his house and practically collapses the moment he walks in the door he’s waiting for him like he expected this. Hakyeon’s hanbok looks okay, except for it being a bit rumpled, but Soyeong had had no idea how to help him with his wig and he was never the best at putting them on anyway, so it’s all askew. Not to mention most of his makeup had ended up on her face and on her thighs, so he’d kept his head down and walked fast. He’d only just made it back to the house before the dizziness overcame him like last time, but this time Jihoon takes off his hanbok, dresses him in his sleep clothes and gets into bed with him.

“Master, what is she doing to you?”

At first Hakyeon doesn’t respond. He’s been keeping this to himself long enough, after all, and there’s no reason that should change now. But he’s _tired_ , he’s so, so tired, and he just can’t bring himself to care anymore. “Have you ever noticed Soyeong’s eyes turning yellow?”

Jihoon stiffens next to him. “Yellow? No.”

“Sometimes… sometimes I see it. I’ve been seeing it, for years. But I just dismissed it. But when we… when she kisses me, I feel this odd sensation in my chest, like, _pulling_. And her eyes, they turn yellow. I think she turns them back, or they go back to brown… I don’t know. I’m always so tired, afterwards, too.”

Hakyeon only realises when he’s drifting off into sleep that Jihoon is trembling dreadfully next to him, but he’s too far gone to do anything about it, and when he opens his mouth nothing comes out.


	5. five

_25th March, 1629_   
_spring_

One thing Hakyeon’s noticed is that Soyeong’s curiosity knows absolutely no bounds.

Hakyeon’s lying on his bed spent and sweaty and exhausted, trying to get his breath back, when Soyeong gets up, tugs on her underclothes and starts to wander around the room, peering interestedly at everything. Hakyeon would stop her, but he doesn’t know if he has the energy, and instead just watches. The house is pretty sparsely decorated; Hakyeon has few material possessions he treasures, maybe just a few tteoljam or hanbok, and Jihoon only has a handful of things, too. One such object is his book, lying on the table, the same book Hakyeon had got him years ago to practice calligraphy in. The first half is dedicated to exactly that, but Hakyeon knows the back half is where Jihoon writes his poetry when he feels inspired. Before he can say anything, Soyeong spots it and picks it up, her eyes bright and curious. It falls open to a page and she reads it silently, and by the time Hakyeon has struggled up into a sitting position, fighting the fatigue in his muscles, it’s too late.

“This is beautiful,” she murmurs, her eyes wide, looking between Hakyeon and the book with awe. “Can… Can you write me out a copy of this poem? I’d like to have it.”

Hakyeon grimaces. “No. It’s not mine. It’s Jihoon’s.”

Soyeong nearly drops the book, she’s so startled. Hakyeon sometimes forgets that he treats Jihoon abnormally, and that most slaves can’t even read or write, let alone do calligraphy and create poetry. “Are you serious? This is beautiful. He’s really gifted.”

Slowly, moving like an old man, Hakyeon manages to get to his feet to snatch the book out of his hands. It’s not hers to read, and it’s not even his, either (even though technically everything Jihoon owns is his, Hakyeon’s never once thought that genuinely), so he closes it and tosses it back on the table. “I keep telling him to publish his stuff under a pseudonym but he’s so worried about being found out he won’t. He’s so _stubborn.”_

“That reminds me of someone I know,” Soyeong smirks, sidling up to him and slipping her arms around his waist.

“Me? Stubborn? I am not,” Hakyeon pouts, and then laughs at the look on her face.

At the back of his mind is the ring, hidden away under a pile of his rattiest hanbok, but something in his mind is telling him _not yet, not yet_ , so he just leans down and kisses her sweetly instead.

//

It’s wrong of him, he knows, but when Soyeong gets dressed and leaves – or rather, when Hakyeon dresses her and does her hair back up in jjokjin meori for her – he ambles over to the table and picks up Jihoon’s book, some heavy, weighty feeling in his gut telling him he needs to _know_. He soon finds the poem that Soyeong must have read; the book falls open to it the moment he picks it up. It’s pretty nothingness, something about comparing blossoms to clouds, but that’s not what he’s after. He keeps flicking through page after page of gorgeous but meaningless poetry – even skipping over one about a tall gisaeng dancing as fluid as water, as much as he wants to read all of that one – until he finds it.

_emptiness_   
_disappearance_   
_shadow_

_yellow eyes in the night_   
_tempting him astray_   
_darkness around her_   
_darkness around him_

_a fate intertwined_   
_three lives extinguished_   
_one life reborn_   
_irreversible, unavoidable, unchangeable_

_emptiness_   
_disappearance_   
_shadow_

Hakyeon flings the book away so fast it’s like it’s burned him, gasping for air. He knew he should have stopped reading when he read Soyeong’s name, the first three words, but he’d kept going and now he feels sick. He only just manages to make it to the window before retching, the words of Jihoon’s poem swirling around in his head. Three lives extinguished? _Whose_ lives? What the fuck did he mean by rebirth? The more he thinks of it the more awful he feels, but the words won’t leave him.

When Jihoon returns a few hours later, Hakyeon leaps underneath his blankets and pretends to be asleep so he won’t have to face him, but he’s pretty sure Jihoon sees him shaking terribly.

 

_25th May, 1629_

It’s spring, which of course means it’s back to flower patterned hanbok for the time being. Well, flower patterned _everything_ ; even his fluttering tteoljam are all flower shaped, and his jeonmo has blossoms inscribed all over it. Thankfully it’s nearly over – he’s absolutely sick to death of the crazy popularity that always comes with spring, all the flower comparisons.

He and Jihoon have decided to take a walk in the gardens, and Hakyeon is just about comment to Jihoon about the deja-vu of it all when someone runs smack-bang into him. “Oh! Your Highness,” he blurts, dropping into a bow, feeling Jihoon do the same next to him. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Funny I keep running into you around here, Songi,” Soyeong replies, and Hakyeon can hear the warmth in her voice. He tries to ignore Jihoon’s poem in his head and instead rises, making eye contact with her and smiling widely.

“Indeed, Your Highness. I think we both appreciate beauty greatly,” he says, falling into step beside her. “Hence why I am drawn to these gardens during spring.”

Soyeong sighs. “I wish His Majesty would take care of them a little more, though, don’t you? Do you see that building?” she raises her hand and points to a building a little ways down the path from them; it’s small and nondescript, but its fading roof paint indicates it used to be very grand. “His Maj –” she winces, and drops her voice to a whisper. “The prince Taekwoon built that, but His Majesty has let it rot.”

He understands why the King would; Taekwoon was only known for a short reign full of bloodshed and slaughter of his own people, a reign that was swiftly ended. No one talks about him, and no one wants to restore anything built by him. Hakyeon nods thoughtfully, pretending to look at the building she’s pointing at but instead sneaking glances at her out of the corner of his eye. He can tell she notices, though, because a blush creeps up her neck and he smirks. She is entirely too easy. “It’s a pity. I do love pretty architecture, Your Highness.”

Fool, what a fool he is. Two years ago he’d berated her for doing the same thing, flirting openly in public, and yet here he is doing the exact same thing. He can’t even say it’s for love, because he at least knows that what he feels for Soyeong isn’t love. Does he have feelings for her? Perhaps. But it’s not love, and that’s the one thing he feels secretly grateful for, although he’s not entirely sure why.

Soyeong turns to him, and Hakyeon thinks back to a year ago, during the autumn, where he’d taken his wig off and her eyes had flashed yellow. _Demon_ , a voice whispers, and he shivers. There’s still something not quite right with her, and Hakyeon doesn’t know if he wants to know what it is – he doesn’t know if he’ll have a choice.

 

_25th August, 1629_   
_summer_

“You seriously stole your father’s horses and went riding all over the countryside at night? At twelve and nine?”

Soyeong’s got her head on Hakyeon’s chest, and Hakyeon is playing with her hair absentmindedly as he talks; she has so much of it that it nearly blankets her at times. He doesn’t quite remember how they’d ended up talking about their childhood – after they’d had sex, Hakyeon had fallen asleep, as he was more prone to doing these days, and had woken to her stroking his head. He knows something isn’t right with his body, knows that everything is somehow linked: the yellow eyes, the exhaustion, the way he feels drunk when she kisses him, sometimes. But he doesn’t want to examine it too closely because he’s absolutely addicted to her now, and can’t get enough, so he just ignores it and lets it fester.

 _Darkness around her_ , his head unhelpfully provides, but he ignores it.

As expected, Soyeong had a rather boring childhood. She had an older brother, who was one of the King’s ministers, but otherwise had spent most of it by herself, reading whatever books she could steal away from her father’s study. She certainly hadn’t had as many adventures as Jihoon and Hakyeon did, and her eyes were wide and bright when he told the stories, like she was picturing it in her head.

“Yes… Jihoon fell off more times than I can count. But he always got back on, and we always kept going. I think the horses started looking forward to it in the end.”

“Why did you stop?” she breathes, pressing a quick kiss to his collarbone.

Good question. There wasn’t a real definite stopping point, but as Hakyeon got more busy with being tutored, and started secretly dancing more, he just hadn’t had the time or inclination to do so. They’d probably stopped when Hakyeon was eighteen and Jihoon fifteen; he’d moved out two years later, and hadn’t ridden a horse since. Up until the horse ride that Jihoon gifted him two years ago, Hakyeon hadn’t even really been near one. He tells Soyeong that, and she gets that intense, thinking look on her face that makes Hakyeon worry, sometimes.

“Have you ever been on a horse?” he prompts, gently, trying to bring her back from wherever she’s gone in her head.

“What? Oh, no, they scare me. They’re so big,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “And they smell funny. So you and Jihoon can keep being manly. I’ll do needlework like a proper lady.”

Hakyeon nuzzles her head and presses a kiss there, smiling slightly. “A proper lady? Well, then, you shouldn’t be in bed naked with someone who isn’t the King. So you’ve already failed.”

“Oh, well, then,” she huffs, propping herself up on her elbows and wiggling her eyebrows at him. “No harm continuing to be bad, then, right?”

Hakyeon opens his mouth to reply but finds he _can’t_ , not when she’s _touching_ him like that, and he’s so stupidly bone-tired but he still wants her, will still always want her, so he doesn’t even bother to say no.

//

By the time he’s helping her do her hair he’s so out of it he can barely stand up. Her eyes are piercing in the mirror, looking straight through him, and Hakyeon smiles tiredly at her. He’ll probably have to cancel his appointments tomorrow, something he’s been doing a lot as of late. It’s not like it matters, really; nothing matters when he’s with her.

“Hakyeon,” she murmurs, whirling around when Hakyeon secures her pretty dragon binyeo in her hair. “Take this.”

She pulls something from her sleeve and presses it into his hand, and Hakyeon stares at it stupidly, wondering how in the hell she’d managed to hide _that_. It’s a tiny, nondescript bottle, secured with a cork. The liquid inside is clear. He looks back at her, confused, his sluggish brain refusing to connect the dots. “What is it?”

Soyeong looks pained, and places her hand on his cheek delicately. “If we’re found out… You know what the punishment is. We’ll both be…”

She doesn’t have to finish. Hakyeon knows what the punishment is. One limb is tied to four horses, who are then whipped until they move forward. The result is instant and extremely gruesome, and is only used for the worst of crimes; infidelity by the consort is most certainly one of them. Hakyeon would probably be tortured beforehand before meeting the same fate. Jihoon would follow soon after. Soyeong’s parents would be forced to commit suicide by drinking poison… _oh_. Hakyeon looks at the tiny bottle again, his eyes widening in understanding. “This is poison?”

“In case we get caught. Wouldn’t you rather have this? Carry it with you everywhere,” she murmurs, and Hakyeon looks at the bottle for a moment before slipping it up his sleeve. He’s not sure he’ll ever need it, but she’s right. This is much easier and painless than the alternative.

 

_25th September, 1629_   
_autumn_

It’s not that Hakyeon doesn’t trust Soyeong, but when she turns up at his house in the middle of the night, alone and wearing slave hanbok, her hair done modestly, and insists on blindfolding both him and Jihoon and leading them somewhere – well, it’s just disorienting. He can actually feel the fear radiating off Jihoon in waves, somewhere off to his left, and wants to reach out and reassure him that it will all be okay, that she’s _not_ evil, but he doesn’t know how and doesn’t know if Jihoon would even believe him if he did. Instead he just holds tight onto Soyeong’s hands as they go… somewhere, and hopes that she’s not leading them anywhere bad.

“Okay,” she says, dropping Hakyeon’s hand. “We’re here.”

Hakyeon takes a step closer to Jihoon, reaching for him, and finds him just as he expected – sunken shoulders, trembling in the cool night air. “Your Highness, may I take off my blindfold?”

“One moment!” she sing-songs, and Jihoon inhales shakily.

If he’d had to guess he’d assume they were outside the palace somewhere. Soyeong could have snuck them out easily, considering they all just look like slaves and no one really pays attention to where slaves are going. That, plus he can no longer smell the heady, rich scent of rotting leaves, which permeates everywhere in the palace at this time of year. The King just doesn’t have the resources (aka, the money) to devote to more than a few gardeners, so leaves end up piled everywhere, smelling sweet as they rot.

“Alright, you can look,” she calls, and they reach up and tug off their blindfolds in one smooth, synchronised movement.

Hakyeon should really be paying attention to the horse that Soyeong is holding – and by holding he means holding the end of a rein, keeping the horse at arm’s length – but he’s struck with her beauty. The moon is out, heavy and weighty and swollen above them all, lighting her up in the most gorgeous way. Even like this, dressed in coarse, dull slave hanbok, with her hair done plainly with no makeup, Hakyeon has to blink once, twice, to make sure that she’s real. He’s still not sure that she really _is_.

Jihoon, on the other hand, takes one look at the horse and practically trips over his own feet at his eagerness to get to it. The horse nuzzles into him as Jihoon scratches its ears, and both of them look so happy that Hakyeon wonders if he’s interrupting something. “Is this for us?” Hakyeon asks Soyeong, who hands the rein over to Jihoon gratefully.

“Yes,” she says, sidling up to him and slipping her hand in his as they watch Jihoon coo at the horse. “After… last month, what you told me… I couldn’t get it out of my mind. I wanted you two to be able to have that again. Even if you won’t be wearing braids this time,” she jokes, resting her head on his shoulder.

Hakyeon turns back to look at the horse. It’s tall and well muscled, its coat rippling and shiny. As he watches, it raises its head to look at him, and he sees it has a lovely kind eye as well. This was most certainly not a cheap gift, and not something he can ever hope to repay – not on a gisaeng’s salary. It’s slightly staggering, the fact that she’s done this for him, for _Jihoon_ , and he doesn’t know what to say. Jihoon, however, has no such issues, and manages to scramble up onto the horse’s back, sitting tall and proud and stroking its neck happily. “Oh, Your Highness, thank you! This is the best present I’ve ever received.”

“I’m standing right here,” Hakyeon mutters good-naturedly, slipping away from Soyeong to inspect the horse up-close. It’s a sturdy thing, certainly more well-built than the skinny little flighty things he and Jihoon used to careen around on. “Watch your mouth.”

Jihoon just sticks out his tongue at Hakyeon, but reaches down and helps him up anyway. The horse snorts with the extra weight, but it doesn’t appear to be having any real trouble, and when Jihoon nudges it with his feet it walks off straight away. “Look at you two,” Soyeong laughs as Hakyeon slips his arms around Jihoon’s waist, taking the reins from his hands and steering the horse into a circle around her. “All that money was certainly worth it for this image. I can picture you two as boys, now.”

Jihoon dips his head, but Hakyeon grins widely at her. “Thank you, Soyeong. I don’t know how I can repay you for this.”

She waves her hand in the air dismissively, her eyes on the both of them as Hakyeon kicks the horse up into a trot. “Don’t worry about it. You’ve already repaid me for it a thousand times over.”

After she explains that the man she bought the horse from will let them keep it there for free, and even feed it for them, Jihoon brightens even more and starts talking about using the horse, which he’s already named Ari, to go and do his shopping and about how he’ll be the most popular slave in the whole palace. Hakyeon doesn’t bother to point out that he’ll also be considered a horse thief and instead lets him natter away as he puts the horse back in its box. It’s worth it to see the grin on his face, anyway, and Hakyeon’s most certainly not able to argue with that.

All he can think about when they are walking back to the palace, though, is her comment: _you’ve already repaid me for it a thousand times over_. There’s something niggling at him, and he knows everything is linked – the eyes, the tiredness, her comment. It’s like he’s got all the puzzle pieces laid out in front of him, but he doesn’t quite know which way they fit together; it’s infuriating, and it must show on his face as she kisses him goodbye, because she looks worried.

Maybe she is a demon after all, and Jihoon has been right this entire time; maybe Hakyeon is slowly losing his mind to insanity, the stressors of his job taking its toll. Whatever the case, he’s sick and tired of the lies and the deceptions. He wants to know the truth.

 

_2nd October, 1629_

Soyeong looks adorable when she laughs, and Hakyeon should be laughing along with her, but instead he just feels nauseous. He’d stopped her the moment she’d come in the door and told her he had a present for her, mainly because he wants to have this talk when he’s clear-headed and not exhausted. So he’d fetched the ring from where he’d buried it and slipped it on her finger as she covered her eyes and laughed at how cute Hakyeon was, all while he felt sick with dread, not sure if he is about to die or if he’s read the situation entirely wrong.

The change in her expression when she opens her eyes and sees the ring on her finger is frightening, and for the first time in a while Hakyeon feels fear. Surprise, anger, sadness, and back to anger again; they all flit across her face in rapid succession, and Hakyeon takes a careful step back. “What are you?” he murmurs, balancing on the balls of his feet, ready for an attack.

She looks up at him, and her eyes are glowing yellow, the same shade as the ring. Just like all the other times he’s seen it it takes his breath away. He can’t play this off as a trick of the light, now, though. This is real, this is _happening_ , and oh, god, what is she? What has he _done?_ “How long have you known?” she asks, her voice completely devoid of emotion.

“Your eyes have been changing colour for years,” he replies, keeping his voice even to match hers. “I thought it was a trick of the light, until I realised it wasn’t. Why do your eyes do that, Soyeong? Why do I feel so exhausted after… after you visit me? What are you?” she doesn’t answer, and Jihoon’s poem flits through her mind, the characters of her name inscribed on everything he sees. “Are you a demon?”

“Some call me that,” she answers immediately, raising her chin defiantly. “But no. I’m not a demon.”

“Are you human?”

A question he never thought he’d ask. He never was a believer in spirits and monsters, and the stories his mother used to tell him just made him laugh with their implausibility. The world of magic was never something he considered; in his day-to-day life he simply did not have the time nor inclination to ponder its existence. He knew Jihoon believed, and now he’s starting to wonder that if Jihoon could sense her all along. It would certainly explain a lot of things.

“No.”

Oh.

He sways, then, the image of what he thought she was crumbling in front of his eyes. For four years, she’d crafted this image of… of what? Of a girl who let power get to her head? Of a woman who was wronged by the Queen? And now… she’s not even human. It’s almost a relief to hear that he’s not imagining all this, but at the same time it’s blatantly horrific.

“I was human, though,” she continues flatly. “About two hundred years ago.”

Hakyeon narrows his eyes at her. “You don’t look two hundred.”

“I am immortal,” she replies.

Hakyeon blinks at her. “What are you?” he asks again, simply because he doesn’t know what to say. He half expects to wake up to Jihoon shaking him because he’d been having a nightmare and yelling out in his sleep, something that’s happening alarmingly often as of late.

“I don’t have a name for what I am,” Soyeong mutters, and Hakyeon senses bitterness there. “I was turned two hundred and four years ago. I do not age. I can change into any form I like, even that of an animal.” She narrows her eyes slightly at him, and Hakyeon’s heart stills in his chest. “I feed on the energy of humans through sex.”

 _Oh._ Well, then.

That’s not like any demon he’s heard of before.

There’s so many questions rushing through his head, all assaulting him too fast for him to grab one and say it – why me? Is your son like you as well? What have you been doing to the King? Why are you doing this? – that all he can do is dig his nails into his palm and wish he was somewhere else. “Are you going to kill me?” he asks faintly.

Soyeong’s cold expression shatters, and her eyebrows knit together. The effect is somewhat disturbing, because of her yellow eyes, but the concern is written all over her face regardless. She reaches out to touch Hakyeon, but freezes when he flinches back like she was about to strike him. “No… I don’t want to hurt you. And I certainly don’t want to kill you. I care about you very much, Hakyeon.”

“And yet you have been feeding on my ‘energy’, have you not?” he spits at her, wrapping his arms around himself to try and contain the implosion. “Who _are_ you?”

She looks at him with pity, but doesn’t answer. Hakyeon doesn’t know if it’s because she can’t, or because she doesn’t want to. He doesn’t particularly care, either way.

“Get out,” he moans, doubling over so he doesn’t have to look at her anymore. “Get _out_ , leave me alone, _please_.”

She does, turning away without another word, and the moment she slides the doors shut Hakyeon’s legs give out from underneath him and he sobs brokenly. Not only is this a betrayal of his trust – she’s been _feeding_ on him, for months! – but it’s such a shock to a system all he can do is cry and shake, the sobs tearing him apart from the inside out. How much of – of him, of his soul, of his being, of his energy, of his _life_ – has she stolen? Who is she? Who _is_ she? How could Hakyeon be so fucking blind, ignoring everything his senses and Jihoon were telling him?

The part that terrifies him the most, the part that makes the hurt multiply tenfold, is that he wants nothing more than to crawl into her arms and be comforted by her, even with this new knowledge of what she is. It occurs to him that shouldn’t be asking who _she_ is. He should be asking himself who _he_ is, because he has apparently lost himself somewhere along the way.

Where did they go so wrong?

 

_30th October, 1629_

The King’s birthday celebrations are, normally, a huge affair, and this year is no exception. Hakyeon has been asked to perform his sword dance, just as he has the past four years, but this year something’s off. He can’t quite tell if it’s the mood at court, which is pretty melancholy overall (the King’s wars are getting more and more expensive and, apparently, bloody), or if it’s just Soyeong’s revelation that’s got him feeling so mixed up. Today will be the first day he’s seen her since that day where she’d told him the truth, where he’d collapsed on the floor and sobbed until he’d run out of tears. Perhaps it’s that that’s making his hands shake as he slides a tteoljam into his wig carefully. Perhaps it’s just fear.

“Are you ready, master?” Jihoon calls from the other room.

_three lives extinguished. one life reborn._

Hakyeon wishes he knew what that meant.

“Yeah. Do you have my swords?” he calls back, taking one last look at himself in the mirror before getting to his feet and padding towards Jihoon. “Let’s hurry. We’re late.”

Soyeong is sitting to the left of the King, the Queen to his right, and when Hakyeon is presented to them he gets on the ground and bows low, waiting for the King to give him permission to rise. It doesn’t come for a long time, and Hakyeon wonders if perhaps the King has gotten sick of him. It wouldn’t be entirely out of the realm of possibilities, after all, and maybe it’s even a sign. Maybe his time at court is ending soon.

He begins his dance, feeling oddly serene as he twirls, his body movements lithe and smooth, still with that touch of masculinity that he can never seem to shake. All he knows is this, all he wants is this, and he knows that no matter what comes Soyeong can never take this away from him, not ever. Dance is the one thing that’s mattered throughout the years, the one thing that has kept him sane, and he knows he’s damned good at it, too. That’s until he spots Soyeong, raising a cup to her mouth, the ring he’d given her firmly situated on her finger and he stumbles, his feet turning to lead.

 _Fool_.

He recovers gracefully, and he’s pretty sure the King doesn’t even notice – he isn’t even watching Hakyeon – but he can’t deny that sight has ignited butterflies in his stomach that he was sure he’d killed. He still wants her, that much is true. But he’s just not really sure what she has to offer him is worth the trade-off anymore.

 

_31st October, 1629_

When she summons him the next day, he goes.

Why he does, he’s not entirely sure. He’s weary of this whole game. He’s tired and sick of it and he just wants to live in peace, without ever hearing her name again. And still he goes, because he swears there’s some part of his soul that calls to hers, that causes such a jolt of recognition when he looks at her that it’s like coming home.

“I’m going away again,” she begins, bringing her cup to her lips, the ring on her finger clearly visible. Hakyeon has visions of a much simpler time and resists the urge to sigh. “The King insists we go away on holiday once again. And he’s taking that _bitch_ … And my son.”

Hakyeon doesn’t say anything. He is empty, devoid of emotions. He’s not even sure he can really feel anything apart from lust and weariness anymore. He doesn’t even know if he cares.

“I know you hate me, and I’m sorry it had to come to this. But will you wait for me?”

Does she know? Has she somehow wormed her way inside his head and read all the desires that war there, foremost being his desire to leave court? It wouldn’t surprise him, and he purses his lips together. Who cares if she knows? He nods, because he doesn’t really have a choice. He knows that, knows that this impossible paradox he’s trapped himself in is going to do catastrophic damage to them all – he hates her, hates what she is and how she lives, but still _wants_ her. Or maybe she’s the one controlling him, making him nod. He doesn’t care.

“Good. I’ll look forward to it.”

Her words are ghosts dancing across his skin, and he shivers under the weight of them.


	6. six

_15th April, 1630_  
_spring_

It had been reasonably easy to secure a house outside of the palace, which is exactly what he’d done the moment the royal family left. Gisaeng don’t earn much, since they are technically slaves, but in the last 4 years Hakyeon has accumulated a surprising amount of wealth, thanks to his elevated status at court. Not to mention all the jewellry and hanbok he has – more than he will ever need. The first thing he sells is the dangui Soyeong gave him and he doesn’t even feel guilty about it.

There’s more things to organise than that, of course. The new house stands empty over the winter even though Hakyeon’s paying rent for it, but it spoke to him and he simply wanted to have it. He also organises maids to come once a month and sweep the place and air it out, and hires a stable boy to look after Ari the horse. The scariest thing he does by far, though, scarier than planning his retirement secretly, is making contact with his father. Hakyeon has seen him around here and there, and he’s danced for him with the other ministers more times than he can count, but he hasn’t spoken to him since that day that Soyeong invited him to have tea. Their meetings start off tense, but slowly settle into an uneasy camaraderie; Hakyeon even senses that his father has a healthy respect for him, although he knows he would never say it. He also doesn’t question Hakyeon’s decision to leave court, and even supports him, lending him a few of his household slaves to help Jihoon move Hakyeon’s things over. Slowly, bit by bit, Hakyeon removes every trace of himself from the little house at court, reducing it to a blank state once more. It’s somewhat freeing.

By the time the royal family returns, Hakyeon has had his letter of resignation next to his pillow for a month. There’s nothing for him here anymore – nothing to gain, and nearly everything to lose. So it’s with no hesitation that he presents it to the King, who seems disappointed but accepting, and frees Hakyeon of his contract immediately. He hadn’t quite expected it to be that easy, so when he returns to the empty house and gives Jihoon the news with a huge smile on his face they just sort of smile at each other.

“You mean… We really get to leave? Just like that?” Jihoon says excitedly.

Ordinarily Hakyeon would expect a spanner to be thrown into the works around about now, a spanner shaped like a woman and called Soyeong, but she hadn’t returned to court with the others. She was spending time with her family and, as such, had no knowledge of what Hakyeon was about to do. “We really do,” Hakyeon says, pulling Jihoon into a hug. “We’re free.”

Of course, nothing in life is as simple as that.

He’s woken that night by Soyeong kissing him, and he kisses her back before he even knows what he’s doing. He soon comes to his senses, though, and wrenches away, propping himself up onto his elbows and scowling at her. He should feel fear, but he just can’t be afraid of her any longer. The mystery is gone, and now that Hakyeon knows what she is he isn’t afraid, just disgusted. “What do you want?”

Soyeong pouts and folds her arms over her chest. She’s wearing absolutely nothing, her thighs bracketing Hakyeon’s hips, and in the pale moonlight she looks beautiful, as always. It’s a cruel, cold beauty, but a beauty nonetheless. “I want you.”

“Go away,” he says, bluntly. “I’m sick of this game. You can’t just use me whenever you want.”

“Oh, Hakyeon, don’t be such a spoilsport. I know you’re planning to leave the palace. Your little slave told me everything.” She leans forward and circles her hands around his wrists, and he can sense the strength there. “Men are so easy.”

“I mean what I say, Soyeong,” Hakyeon snarls, arching up. “Get _off_ me. I’m not interested.”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, are you sure about that? Look at me.”

Hakyeon starts to turn his head, but it’s too late, and when he locks eyes with her the world starts to melt away. He’d expected that knowing about her power would make it less potent, but it’s still as intoxicating as ever, and when she strokes his face he leans into the touch and sighs, never taking his eyes off her. She’s so beautiful, _God_ , she’s so beautiful, how could he tell himself he never wanted her again?

“One last time,” she mutters to herself, and he finds himself agreeing.

But this time is different. This time she feeds, just a little bit at first but more and more, and when Hakyeon pushes at her she’s immovable and heavy like a rock. The fear comes rushing back into him, all at once, and he shouldn’t be afraid of her. Not now, not when he knows what she really is, not when he hates her so. But he _is_ , and that makes it all the worse as she takes and takes, his vision starting to fade. “Soyeong…” he gasps, digging his nails into her forearm, a wordless plea. His eyes feel funny, they’re stinging, and if he had to guess he’d assume they were yellow, too. A yellow he never wanted to see on himself. He never even considered it.

“Mine,” she hisses as she glares down at him, her haunting yellow eyes piercing him, and that is the last thing Hakyeon sees when he closes his eyes for the last time as a human.

//

“Yes, _yes_ , Hakyeon, come back to me.”

An explosion. That’s what it is. His senses exploding into being, but more, _more_ , more than they’ve ever been before. He can hear everything, can _feel_ everything, and he wants _everything_ , he’s so hungry. All he can feel is the hunger. Not hunger in his stomach. No. Primal, deeper, an urge. To feed. To _take_. He wants, he wants so much, and when he opens his eyes and sees her he takes.

“Good,” she mumbles as Hakyeon takes and takes, feeds and feeds, takes until he’s so full he feels like he’s going to die but all he can feel is her, around him everywhere, so warm and filling and _right_ and as she runs her nails down his back, choking on the syllables of his name, he feels so very alive, so very alive.

//

He runs.

He runs because he doesn’t know what else he can do. All his senses are blaring at him, every one of them; it’s completely overwhelming in every sense of the word and he runs and runs to get away from it all. He’s sure he’s running faster than he ever has before, and he squeezes his eyes shut, terrified. His heart is still beating. He can hear it, thudding loudly in his head. Does that mean he’s still a human? What has she _done_ to him?

She finds him in the woods, curled up in a ball and sobbing brokenly, covering his ears desperately. When she sits next to him and opens her arms he crawls into them and cries and cries and cries, the buffeting sensations lessened slightly by the comfort of her presence. Hakyeon, he’s Hakyeon. Hakyeon the human, Hakyeon the gisaeng, Hakyeon who comforted Jihoon whenever he cried, Hakyeon who never failed to make anyone laugh. Or he was. He doesn’t know if he is any of those things, anymore. He has lost himself. She has taken him.

 

_18th April, 1630_

The next few days were absolute torture. Soyeong had told him that it would take awhile to adjust to his new senses, to settle into being able to hear everything with a heartbeat in a one-kilometre radius. She’d reassured him it got better, and promised that he would be okay. Apparently he was ‘made for this’, whatever that meant.

Hakyeon knew three things, and three things only, for those first few days: he was Hakyeon; he was no longer human; he was whatever she was. And it was enough. He couldn’t focus on much more, really, when he couldn’t wear clothes because he could feel all the threads, and when he couldn’t sleep because he kept waking up, hearing someone on the other side of the palace cough. Slowly, things began to come back to him, although he didn’t really want them to. He was a gisaeng. He was a dancer. His best friend was called Jihoon – Jihoon who was sick with worry over Hakyeon, Jihoon who thought he was just ill. He was twenty-five years old. He had a father, a mother, two older sisters, an older brother. Slowly he found himself again, although he wasn’t sure if he’d ever really be the same; Soyeong had ripped him to pieces and put him back together, but different.

On the third day he emerges. The first thing he does is rear up and hug Jihoon, who’s sleeping sitting up next to his bed. Jihoon nearly falls over, but he hugs Hakyeon back tight, and when Hakyeon pulls back he sees Jihoon is crying.

“Jihoonie,” he coos, wiping Jihoon’s tears as they fall and ignoring his own eyes welling up. “Don’t cry. I’m okay.”

Lies: he’s the furthest from okay he’s ever been. But he’s also pragmatic, and knows that whatever Soyeong has done to him cannot be undone. He’s alive, and his heart is beating, and that’s enough. He’ll learn to deal with whatever comes. “Master, I thought you were going to die,” Jihoon sobs, clutching onto Hakyeon like he’s a lifeline. “I thought you were going mad.”

 _Maybe I am_ , Hakyeon thinks, but he doesn’t say it. Instead he just smiles at Jihoon gently, and tousles his hair. “I’m not mad. I’m fine now.”

Jihoon cries and cries, and Hakyeon comforts him in every way he knows how. He holds him close (the skin contact feels nice, he realises; not in a sexual way, but just comforting, in a way it’s not been before), he goes and fetches rice from the cooks and feeds it to him like a child, making him smile, and when that fails he ends up doing handstands and cartwheels around the tiny house until Jihoon laughs. He laughs even harder when Hakyeon deliberately falls on his head, and just the sound of his laughter is comforting. Hakyeon is sure he knows what he is – he can _feel_ when his eyes glow yellow, now, and knows that Jihoon must have seen – but he doesn’t seem afraid at all.

This is a hiccup in their plans, but it hasn’t changed anything. Hakyeon is still desperate to get away from the palace, even if the thought of being physically away from Soyeong right now hurts in a way it hasn’t before. He can’t stand to live here any longer.

When Jihoon dresses him as Songi, because he’s still got another three weeks at the palace and it would be awful to be caught so close to the end, he remembers what Soyeong told him. Does… does this mean he is immortal, now? He will never age? As everyone else withers and dies around him he will continue on into time, an anomaly? The thought vaguely horrifies him.

He makes his way to Soyeong’s place slowly, turning his face to the sun and enjoying the way it hits his face. Outside like this his heightened senses are even more obvious, but he is starting to get used to them now. The smell of the blossoms on the trees is nearly overwhelming, and he realises that he’ll never be able to smell them again without thinking of this time. Of _course_ she had to do it in spring. Spiteful to the last.

Soyeong’s out, but he waits patiently in her house for her return, finding that he can go impossibly still and lose himself in his own head. When he blinks, hours have passed, and Soyeong is looking down at him. He jumps, guilty even though he hasn’t done anything wrong. Even just her presence is comforting now, somehow, it touches some base craving he didn’t even even know he was feeling.

“I’ll be blunt, because there’s no point being coy now,” he says, his voice even. “You changed me.”

Soyeong raises her chin slightly in defiance. “Yes, I did. You are the same as me.”

Hakyeon nods. He’d already known that, but it’s nice to have it confirmed at least. “Alright. So all those things you told me – they apply to me, correct? I am human no longer. I will not age.”

“That’s right.”

“And I need energy to live, now, not food and water. Energy I get through sex.”

She sighs, and slumps a little bit. “I don’t see why we have to rush this. We have an eternity to be together and work this out. I can show you how to feed… I can show you everything.”

Hakyeon purses his lips. “I don’t know what you expected from turning me, but this has changed nothing. I’m still moving out of the palace. I do not want anything to do with you from now on. Just because you lowered yourself to pettily murdering me – yes, I remember,” he warns, watching as the expression on her face goes from blank to surprised, “just because you did that does not mean we will be together for an ‘eternity’.”

He has stumped her. For the first time in five years, Soyeong is completely speechless, and Hakyeon feels triumphant. She may be desperate, and resorting to horrid methods to try and keep him, but he’s steadfast in his decision. Soyeong is trouble. He doesn’t want anything to do with trouble. His new status changes nothing.

“I… I am your maker,” she says, and her voice is small. “We can feel each other. We have a bond, now, whether you like it or not. It’s not that easy to just… cut that off.”

“I’m sure there are ways,” Hakyeon shrugs, nonplussed. “Magic is evidently a thing that exists in this world. I’m sure it’s what’s reanimated me. Someone, somewhere, will know. But, getting back to my point. Please tell me how to feed.”

Soyeong stares at him like she’s never seen him before, and Hakyeon meets her gaze equally. There’s no fear or hatred there, and nor is there a warm undercurrent of affection, like she seems to be expecting. Hakyeon feels nothing for her, and it’s deliciously freeing. “You… It’s just like I told you. You feed through sex. Kissing gives you some energy, but it’s only a small amount. The younger you are, the more you have to feed, so you’ll be hungry once your high wears off.”

“And does the feeding process start automatically?” he prompts, his voice neutral. “Do I have to do anything to trigger it?”

“No… it starts automatically. You can stop it if you want, but at your age you will find that hard. All energy taken should be consensually. People will be naturally drawn to you, anyway, so that won’t be a problem,” she replies warily. “I find it easy to have a long-term companion, and sap a little bit of energy from them each time. You could do that with your slave.”

Hakyeon shakes his head, even though he hates her talking about Jihoon like that. “Jihoon is my brother in every way except name. That won’t be happening. I’ll find a way.”

Soyeong is silent for a moment, before she looks back up at him, her gaze unreadable. “If you can’t find someone, come to me. I can give you some more energy, but I can’t do it more than once. It’s seen as dirty between our kind, to share energy like that.”

So there are more of them out there, and yet she still doesn’t have a name for whatever Hakyeon is now. Interesting. Hakyeon makes a note of that, and wonders how he’d even be able to tell if someone else is the same as them. Perhaps he’ll just be able to feel it. “Thank you. I’ll take my leave of you now. Jihoon and I will remain at the palace for the next three weeks, but please don’t visit me in that time.”

When he leaves, he feels like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. It’s so easy to draw a line in the sand and place Soyeong firmly on one side of it and treat her accordingly. And it’s so damn freeing to look at her and feel nothing, nothing at all. He’s humming to himself happily as he heads back to the house, especially as he knows he has thwarted her attempts to keep him here. Hakyeon has refused to be confined to anything his entire life, and he’s not about to start now, even as an immortal.

 

_6th May, 1630_

Hakyeon is woken up by Jihoon ripping the blankets off him, and as much as he hates it – “Just let me sleep in, Jihoon, just this once, _please_ ,” – he smiles secretly to himself at how some things never change.

“Master! Get _up!”_ Jihoon yells loudly, and Hakyeon winces. “Three days to go!”

Of course Jihoon would be celebrating the fact that they only have three days to go until they move out. It’s entirely like him, and Hakyeon groans as he sits up but it’s not genuine and Jihoon can see straight through it. It’s already midday – Jihoon had let him sleep in, as much as Hakyeon thought he hadn’t – and they have plans to go into town and go furniture shopping. The thought of _that_ makes listening to his father drone on about taxes sound positively fascinating, but seeing as how Jihoon is so excited he’s practically bouncing off the walls Hakyeon can’t deny him this small thing.

It’s when Jihoon grabs him by the hand to help him off the floor that it happens. The hunger that he’s been feeling brimming underneath the surface for a few days now explodes into being and is suddenly very real and _there_ , behind his breastbone and low in his belly. It’s so much more raw and primal than hunger he feels for food, almost animalistic in its fierceness. He needs to _feed_ , that’s what he needs, and Jihoon is human and he’s right there in front of him.

“Master, your eyes,” Jihoon says, and he sounds so nonplussed it’s like he’s pointing out the weather.

Hakyeon drops Jihoon’s hand and backs away, feeling his eyes go back to normal, and the hunger settle down. It’s still roaring away in his head, but it’s not sharp, and he can cope with it. “Sorry, Jihoon. I’ll… go take care of it.”

He gets dressed in slave clothes quickly, and looks back over his shoulder at Jihoon just before he leaves the house. He’s counting money into piles of tens on the floor, and Hakyeon smiles softly at the homely image. He doesn’t know how much Jihoon knows about him, about what he is, but he’s connected some dots, obviously. The fact that he’s not even afraid of Hakyeon at all just confirms the love that Hakyeon has for him, and he calls out right before he leaves, “Oh, and Jihoon? You can stop calling me master, now,” and sees as he looks up in surprise before shutting the door behind him.

Even though the hunger is pulsing in his veins he takes his time and meanders the way to Soyeong’s, laughing to himself at how shocked Jihoon had looked. It’s something he’s been thinking of a while, since Jihoon is only really a slave by name. He’s Hakyeon’s friend, first and foremost, so why should he not address him as friends do?

Soyeong takes one look at him and draws her into his arms, kissing him sweetly, and Hakyeon ignores the way she makes his stomach turn and lets her energy pour into him with a rush. _The last time, the last time_ , he tells himself, resolving to make it come true. This is the last time, and he is glad for it.

 

_9th of May, 1630_

He’d expected to feel a little bit sad now that they’d left the little house at court for the last time. But instead he just felt like a great weight has been lifted off his shoulders, like he is free again, free in a way he hasn’t been for years. Jihoon is skipping along next to them as they walk, Hakyeon dressed in some of Jihoon’s borrowed slave clothes. It’s such a relief to be free of hanbok, and he doesn’t want to put it back on for a long, long time. He doesn’t intend to give up dancing – it’s his life, and he could never do that – but perhaps it’s time to rethink his strategies. Maybe he could start dancing from home, inviting people to come and see that; the possibilities are endless, and even if he is a nameless monster at least he has Jihoon and at least he has his dancing.

“Master, do you think we could get a dog?” Jihoon’s doing that thing where he’s buzzing excitedly, his eyes wide, and Hakyeon wonders how a twenty-one year old man can still act the same as he used to when he was sixteen.

Hakyeon squints. “Like a hunting dog? Do you want to learn how to hunt? And I’ve told you before, call me _hyung_ , Jihoon, please.”

Jihoon cocks his head to the side. “I was thinking more of a pet. But do you think you could teach me how to use a bow and arrow?”

Now that’s a novel concept. Hakyeon hasn’t held one of those since he was fifteen. He was never very good at archery, much to his father’s chagrin. He was much better at sparring, and stuff that involved him actually being physical and moving around. But still, the prospect is entertaining, and now that he’s discovering all the new things his body can do now he’s changed – he can run faster and further than he ever has before, and although he hasn’t tested it he’s sure his acrobatics have improved as well – it would be fun to go hunting in the woods with Jihoon.

Smiling widely at him, Hakyeon nods. “I can try, but I’m not very good at it. But we could do it –”

He was about to say _together_ , but something makes him stop in his tracks. It starts in his belly and spreads throughout his whole body, immobilising him completely – the slow burn of panic, settling in his veins, choking him. It’s the oddest feeling because he can feel it as if he’s the one panicking but he knows he’s _not_ , he’s _fine_ , and realises this must be the bond that Soyeong talked about. He closes his eyes, because he can feel they’ve gone yellow again, and doubles at the waist, wrapping his arms around himself as he tries to control his breathing. _It’s not you, it’s not you_ , he tells himself, but the panic is so real it’s hard to think logically.

“Master…” Jihoon whispers, touching Hakyeon on the shoulder gently. “What is it?”

With difficulty, Hakyeon straightens up and looks straight at Jihoon, who flinches slightly at the sight of his eyes. “Go and get Ari, Jihoon. I won’t be very far behind you.”

“Master –” begins Jihoon, but Hakyeon shakes his head.

 _“Go,”_ he urges, and gives him a gentle push before turning his back on Jihoon and running, running back to her, running back straight into danger.

He should ignore it, but the waves of panic are so powerful and compelling he doesn’t know if he’d be able to ignore them. The feeling of unease grows as he sprints through the palace grounds, turning heads as people wonder where a slave is running to at full speed. He actually has to slow himself slightly, knowing that if he runs as fast as he’s really capable of that will draw more attention than he needs right now. His vision starts to go funny, blurry at the edges, as the weight of Soyeong’s fear settles heavy on his chest, wrapping its fingers around his neck. God _damn_ it. He doesn’t know what’s going on but he wishes once, just once, he could have peace. He hates her.

What he sees when he rounds the corner in front of her house makes him come to an abrupt stop, his eyes wide with horror. Soyeong’s being dragged out the front door of her house, half-dressed, wearing only her underclothes. She needs two guards for each limb, and even then they’re having trouble keeping her contained. From here Hakyeon can hear, over the noise of her indignant shrieks, two of her maids whispering, “...having a bath... found a mark on the inside of her thigh… not the King’s… hasn’t seen her for months… infidelity.”

Hakyeon’s blood runs cold at the exact same instant that Soyeong spots him and falls silent. Something passes between them, and Hakyeon stops just short of falling to his knees and begging her to let him go. He’s completely unnoticed, and if she doesn’t say anything he will be able to slip away from her, go and live his life in peace. Surely she won’t be that petty. _Surely_ she won’t try and get Hakyeon killed as well, because that’s what’s about to happen to her, they both know. It’s all over.

“That’s him,” she calls to the guards, her voice hysterical. “That’s my lover.”

The guard’s heads snap around and spot Hakyeon right away, frozen to the spot and trembling with rage and indignation. “That slave?”

“He’s no slave. He’s Songi, the gisaeng. He’s been fooling you all for years,” Soyeong spits, and Hakyeon’s rage burns brighter than anything he’s ever felt before.

He doesn’t stick around to wait to see if they decide to believe her. He turns and runs as fast as he can, not bothering to temper his speed, his heart thudding in his ears as his world falls down around him once more. This is the one thing that can’t be fixed. He has a price on his head now. They all do. He hates her, he _hates_ her, and ignores the tears welling up in his eyes as he runs. She deserves her punishment, cunning minx that she is, but Hakyeon was drawn into her web as much as the King was. He and Jihoon don’t deserve this.

He’s nearly sick when he thinks about Jihoon. Already he can hear yells from behind him, the other guards sending the word to stop the slave sprinting across the palace. He doesn’t know what to _do_ , and knows the panic bubbling up in his throat is his own, now. They’re going to die, they’re going to fucking die, and it’s not fair when they’ve made it this far and they’ve gotten through court and they’ve done so much. It’s not fair, it’s not _fair_ , and by the time he slips out the front gate he’s sobbing brokenly. When he looks down at his hands he can see that they’re changing shape right in front of his eyes, and he’s so afraid that he freezes. Is – is this his body’s reaction to his fear? Trying to change him into something else entirely?

Jihoon’s waiting with Ari like he said he would be, mounted on the horse and stroking its neck. He looks alarmed as Hakyeon comes scrambling towards him, nearly falling over and obviously panicking. He doesn’t know what to do, what can he do? They’ll be caught, they’ll be caught and killed and Hakyeon can get away but Jihoon can’t, Jihoon can’t come, and the moment his fingers close around the bottle of poison in his sleeve – the same bottle Soyeong gave him months and months ago, the same bottle he’s kept close since – he knows what he must do.

“Master?! What happened?” Jihoon blurts, yanking Ari around. Hakyeon can hear the yells. They’ve been spotted.

“No time, no time,” he mumbles, pulling out the bottle and clutching it in his fist, hating himself. Oh, he hates himself. He hates Soyeong for making him do this, but he hates himself more.

Ari’s prancing on the spot anxiously, but Jihoon pays him no mind and instead leans down to shake Hakyeon on the shoulder. _“Hyung!”_ he yells, right in Hakyeon’s face, his eyes flicking between Hakyeon and what are, no doubt, the palace guards approaching. “What happened?”

Jihoon’s use of hyung cuts Hakyeon so deep he moans, shaking his head helplessly as he cries openly now. “They found her. They found her, and she told them what I am. They know. Do you understand? They _know_. They’re coming for you, they’re coming for us.”

Hakyeon can barely stand to see the understanding cross Jihoon’s face because it breaks his heart. He knows what that means, he’s not stupid, and he knows his chances of escape are slim. “Get on, Hakyeon. We’ll run.”

The words cut him to the core, spilling him open. Can’t Jihoon _see?_ Can’t he see that Hakyeon is bleeding out? Doesn’t he know that he can’t follow Hakyeon? “Jihoonie,” he coos, taking Jihoon’s hand and pressing the tiny bottle there, closing his fingers around it. “Jihoonie, take this. They’re gonna catch you. Drink this.”

“Hakyeon…” Jihoon’s face is ash, but Hakyeon stares up at him as he sobs brokenly. “I won’t do that. We can still get away, come on, get on the horse. Hakyeon, _please.”_

He will never forgive himself for what he says next, not as long as he lives. He knows his words will ripple through him until the end of time, and realises that he deserves to live forever with this pain. He can barely even see Jihoon through the tears, and feels like his body is about to shift into something else completely and take him away from here, but he clenches his fists. “That’s an order, Jihoon.”

“Master…” Jihoon whispers.

 _This is better, this is better than torture, don’t you see?_ is what Hakyeon wants to say, but they’re so close, he can feel them breathing down his neck and knows that if he doesn’t start running now he’s going to explode. “I’m sorry,” he sobs, shakes rocking him from the inside out. “I’m so sorry, Jihoon. I love you.”

There’s a beat of silence where Jihoon is looking down at him, and he looks so serene and manly and at peace that it slices Hakyeon’s heart in two. He doesn’t deserve him, the world doesn’t deserve Pyo Jihoon, and Hakyeon will never forget him as long as he lives. _Never_. “Go, hyung,” Jihoon yells, uncapping the bottle and swallowing the contents in one smooth motion, whirling Ari around to face the guards and kicking him in the ribs. “Go!”

Hakyeon runs, ignoring the sounds of death behind him.

 

_10th May, 1630_

Wonshik is getting sick of this life. Hanging around on the fringes of society and grabbing slaves when they stray too far from the city’s walls is completely below him, since 200 years ago he was King Sejong’s right-hand man, but it’s not like he has a _choice_. Maybe it’s time to move on, to go travelling for a while, see the world. It would be nice to explore, and it would be nice to get away from Joseon.

He pulls away from the man he’d stolen for that night’s feed, licking his neck to close the wounds and letting him drop into a heap on the ground. For a moment Wonshik thinks he’s taken too much and that he’s dead, but then he sees the human’s chest rise and fall shallowly and sighs in relief. He really doesn’t like killing; it should come naturally to him, but it just doesn’t. He much prefers to take a little and feed more. It’s not like feeding is _difficult_ , anyway.

“Oh, for God’s sakes,” he mutters, realising he’s got some blood on his pants. He’s scrubbing at it with his spit-wet finger when he feels something, and crouches over, his fangs sliding out automatically.

It’s been a while since he’d felt another immortal. Rumour had it that there was a succubus at court somewhere, which didn’t surprise him, but he was trying to stay away from there – he was sure depictions of his face were still around the place here and there, and the last thing he wanted was to get recognised. This feels like a succubus, but as it gets closer and closer, Wonshik realises it’s an incubus, and a new one at that. It’s not making any effort to be quiet, either, is just crashing through the woods blindly. Wonshik wonders if it’s stupid or just trying to get itself killed.

The incubus stumbles into the little clearing that Wonshik had found, and its eyes fall upon the body of the human at Wonshik’s feet, before travelling up his body to rest on his face. Wonshik’s fangs are out, and his eyes are glowing red, but the incubus doesn’t flee. Instead it keels over, flopping onto the ground, and stares up at him wearily. “Are you an immortal too?”

Is it _that_ new? Does it not know what a vampire is? “I am,” Wonshik replies, retracting his fangs. This waif-like thing isn’t a threat. “What are you doing here?”

“Running,” it replies, and Wonshik notices the way it digs its fingernails into its palm.

This close, Wonshik can feel just how new this incubus is. It’s barely a month old, and he wonders what the fuck it’s doing here without its maker. Perhaps the succubus at court is its maker, but that still doesn’t explain why it’s out here, in the middle of nowhere, looking like shit and running for its life. “Alright. What are you running from?”

He hears them before the incubus does – footsteps, crashing through the forest after it. It’s not a surprise, considering how _loud_ it was being, but it looks up at Wonshik’s alert pose confusedly before it hears its pursuers and lets out a sob, covering its eyes. “Fuck. I thought I shook them.”

Wonshik errs. He could run and be out of these woods in five minutes, and the only evidence that he was here would be the sleeping human at his feet. But this incubus is so new that leaving it to whoever is chasing it seems as bad as murder, and Wonshik has just contemplated how much he hates killing. He really doesn’t need to babysit a brand-new immortal, but then again, there are so few of them these days that he’s probably doing a good deed if he helps it.

The incubus makes moves to get up, but Wonshik sees its legs shaking and realises how weak it is. That decides it, and in one swift movement he picks the incubus up, cradling it close to his chest, and runs in the opposite direction to the noises. The incubus, for its part, looks surprised, but loops an arm around Wonshik’s neck and hangs on. “What are you doing?”

“Saving your life, since you don’t know how to do it yourself,” Wonshik grunts. “What’s your name?”

“Hakyeon…” he mutters, and his voice is so faint Wonshik has to strain to hear him. “I’m Hakyeon.”

Wonshik raises an eyebrow. “I’m Wonshik,” he replies, picking up the pace, the trees blurring as he sprints past them. “I’m a vampire, in case you couldn’t tell.”

Hakyeon, however, has already passed out in his arms, and Wonshik rolls his eyes. There’s some sort of story there, as to how this brand-new incubus ended up exhausted and weak in the middle of the woods, running from God only knows what, but something tells him he’ll find out one day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got… so long. So, so, so long. It just ran away with me. One moment it was 8k and I was nodding at my computer like “yes, yes, I can do this,” and then it was 37k and I was howling at the injustice of it all. It’s been a few months in the making, mainly because I procrastinated because it involved so much research, but once I threw myself into it I found I really enjoyed it. Plus, I’m now an expert on Joseon era clothes and hairstyles, so there’s that bonus.
> 
> I’m sorry about the OC – I know some people don’t like them, and that’s cool. I hope no one skips this bit of the series because of her, but I certainly wouldn’t blame them if they did! I tried to make her as inoffensive as possible (except when she was meant to be offensive) and I hope it worked. The Jihoon cameo is probably a bit random as well, but he fit the role so perfectly.
> 
> Anyway. Back to the status quo from now on… no random tangents like this one! I want to write Hongbin’s backstory one day, but that’s somewhere down the line, later. Thanks to Yezi for her help with everything and for fielding my numerous questions, and thanks to Liv for being my supporter as always.
> 
> Thanks for reading ♡


	7. glossary

**[Binyeo](http://glimja.deviantart.com/art/Binyeo-428256679)** : the hairpin that women used to secure their hair. Ranged from very ornate to simple, depending on the class of the woman. Queens wore dragon and phoenix binyeo.  
 **[Chima](http://xn--910bs4kt81a.com/web/G/\(G-143\)C.jpg)** : the skirt part of the hanbok.  
 **[Daenggi](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/90/57/f4/9057f425e59b706f030e80d620a87b22.jpg)** : a term for all ribbons worn on the hair. Most daenggi were long, broad, and red.  
 **[Dangui](http://eoto.blogs.tamk.fi/files/2014/12/%EA%B6%81%EC%A4%91%ED%95%9C%EB%B3%B52.png)** : a more formal jacket worn over jeogori with a long flap in front. The women in the royal family, ladies-in-waiting, and high-class women generally wore this, as it was considered polite for them to hide their hands.  
 **[Eonjun meori](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/80/d3/99/80d3997bba6c7c99e3b01c7652b9dac8.jpg):** Hakyeon’s everyday hairstyle as Songi, characterised by large, dramatic hair, often asymmetrical. The wig is adorned with tteoljam and daenggi. This was the regular hairstyle for gisaeng.  
 **[Gat](https://thetalkingcupboard.files.wordpress.com/2013/01/the-moon-that-embraces-the-sun-ep-07-avi_001249282.jpg)** : a term for a hat. Usually referring to the hats that the noblemen wore.  
**Gisaeng** : highly-trained artist women or courtesans, experts in the the fine arts, especially dance and poetry. They were technically members of the slave class, and were generally owned by the government and performed at court. They wore bright hanbok and large wigs.  
 **[Hanbok](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/e5/ee/c9/e5eec96858d604fc679ca9a1e327d19b.jpg)** : the traditional dress of Korea; often I use the term ‘hanbok’ in this fic to refer to women’s hanbok, but men wore hanbok as well. Instead of having a chima, they wore pants called baji.  
 **[Jeogori](http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OKPVW6vej5M/UcHU8IH-4bI/AAAAAAAAAMQ/jjVrz6JYTPY/s1600/jeogori.jpg)** : the bodice part of the hanbok. It was tied in the front with a ribbon in a certain knot.  
 **[Jeonmo](https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1dCCIGq4nwc/V1NLkl4p-dI/AAAAAAAACrI/wS3WiZD-M7IjsNN96IKj3azx8kBA9GxBQCLcB/s1600/tumblr_m4m6o8Y56f1rx26jzo1_500.jpg)** : a large, conical hat, made with bamboo covered with decorated paper. Often worn by gisaeng and sometimes paired with sheer fabric over the top to obscure their faces.  
[**Jjokjin meori** :](http://glimja.deviantart.com/art/Jjok-jin-meori-423822633) a hairstyle that was worn by married women, noblewomen, and the royal family (during the everyday, as opposed to during events). The hair was braided, a daenggi was tied onto the end and the hair was twisted into a bun and secured with a binyeo.  
 **[Manggeon](https://thetalkingcupboard.files.wordpress.com/2012/06/tvn-ec9db8ed9884ec9995ed9b84ec9d98-eb82a8ec9e90-e05-120502-hdtv-h264-720p-taple-avi_002335866.jpg)** : a headband for men who wore the sangtu style, made of horsehair  
 **[Sangtu](http://koreafilm.ro/blog/wp-content/uploads/2010/05/%EC%83%81%ED%88%AC%EB%A8%B8%EB%A6%AC.jpg)** : a hairstyle for men where the hair was gathered back into a topknot and worn with a manggeon, a hairband often made of horsehair. This hairstyle was generally for upper class men, who put their hair up like this after getting married as a sign of becoming an adult (before this they wore their hair in a braid), but lower-class men and slaves wore a less refined version. Jihoon put his hair up like this to appear more like a ‘man’ rather than a boy, because it would be odd for Songi to have a young boy for a slave.  
 **[Sangtugwan](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/cecilialambiel/16115501/274609/274609_600.png)** : a hair ornament for the sangtu style, often described as a crown with a hairpin through it (similar to the hairpin the women wear).  
 **[Tteoljam](http://cfile215.uf.daum.net/image/1412FF09498069870B1B6A)** : small dangly ornaments, mainly used for the eonjun meori style. They came in many different styles and patterns.  
**Yangban** : the highest caste in society – mostly made up of civil servants and military officers. One could get yangban status by passing the civil service exams.

My sources for the above information:  
[A Guide to Joseon Hairstyles and Headgears](https://thetalkingcupboard.com/2013/04/17/a-guide-to-joseon-hairstyles-and-headgears/)

[Women of the Joseon Dynasty (Part 1)](https://thetalkingcupboard.com/2014/06/15/women-of-the-joseon-dynasty-part-1/)

[Women of the Joseon Dynasty (Part 2)](https://thetalkingcupboard.com/2014/10/30/women-of-the-joseon-dynasty-part-2/)

[Traditional Korean Clothing: Kdrama Style](https://thetalkingcupboard.com/2011/06/11/traditional-korean-clothing-inspired-by-kdramas/)


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